Magic and Mayhem
by Drag0nst0rm
Summary: That pretty much sums up Merlin's life. A series of drabbles and short stories. Don't own, no slash, prompts welcome, and some threads will be continued from my previous story, Merlin Headcanons.
1. Silk

Gwen had always loved the beautiful dresses that Morgana wore. At first, they had been a dream, an impossible one, forever out of reach.

Then she married Arthur and the dream became reality.

Until Arthur died and the dresses became masks to hide behind, and her silks felt as hard as steel.

. . . . .

Gwen Thompson loved the princess dresses she picked every Halloween and insisted on wearing every day her first week of school. Anything more than cheap synthetic materials was out of the question though, naturally.

Or it was until prom when her father surprised her with a beautiful silk mermaid concoction that felt so right and so wrong, just like watching the dance floor with her forgettable date until she was dizzy with half formed memories.

Her dates with Arthur were much better. She borrowed a dress from the drama club for the Renaissance Fair he took her to.

Velvet and lace. A heavy crown. _Arthur._ She remembered it all. So did he.

She wore a white ballgown to her wedding and smacked Merlin when he teased her about a _dress_ triggering memories he'd been trying to for months.

And this time, silk was allowed to stay silk and not become steel.

. . . . .

 **A/N: This was originally one of twenty gift fics for my sister's birthday. She has generously allowed me to post it online. Thanks, sis!**


	2. The Origin of the Hat

**A/N: Er, I promise not all of these are going to be clothing themed. This just came to mind. Set in an AU where magic was revealed and in due course, everything was fine.**

 **. . . . .**

At first, nothing changed at all. He wore the same worn jacket, the same two neckerchiefs, the same rough shirts. Of all the things on his mind at the moment, clothes barely registered, but looking back he might have thought that it had been good to have something familiar when everything else was changing, and it had reminded everyone that he was still the same person they had always known.

The changes started slowly. He needed an amulet to do his work, and there was no reason to hide it now, so he wore it openly and without really thinking about it. It was only after someone commented on it that he realized that yes, he was wearing magical artifacts in public now, and it was fine. He was allowed.

The rest crept in bit by bit. Some came in as need required (shielding amulets, staff to focus power, pouch for herbs) and others were to fulfill different kinds of needs, like the need to intimidate a delegation or the equally important need to pull a prank on Gwaine, but others were strictly for himself. Half defiant, half proud markers that yes, he was a warlock, and he wasn't going to be shy about it. Not anymore.

(When Gwaine had called attention to his first amulet, his hand had automatically flown to cover it, and he'd been stuttering for an excuse before he'd remembered that he didn't have to. His hand still automatically twitched towards it whenever Arthur walked into a room.)

He never wore the robes, the others would have laughed, and he wouldn't have been able to run in them, but when Arthur got him the hat, he wore it proudly. It was overdone and screamed magical in a way only charlatans would have bothered with before the Purge, but after it, he wasn't the only one going out of his way to proclaim his identity. Pointy hats quickly swept the magical population, the more ostentatious and gratuitously magical the better.

(There was a competition, once. There was one that sang, another with birds that flew out of it, and a beautiful one with dragons and a town on the brim. The one that danced with sparks gave him chills, though, and he had nightmares about the dragon burning Camelot that morphed into Uther storming into the festivities and fires that were not nearly so harmless as sparks.)

His hat was eventually sacrificed to an experiment induced explosion. Arthur yelled at him for an hour, and then thrust a new hat into his hands that looked like the night sky had been stitched into silk. He'd marched off grumbling when Merlin had beamed at him.

He died a month later. The hat was the last present he ever gave Merlin.

So Merlin shoved it on his head and marched forward, doing what he could and refusing to take it off, no matter how many dirty glances began to be thrown towards it.

He preserved it with magic for centuries until a plague brought back old fears and the villagers thought to burn the funny old man who was obviously magical at the stake.

Merlin was fine, but he lost the hat.

He missed the hat. He wanted it back.

He made another one exactly like it and went on.

It was _his_ hat. He didn't care how dangerous things got, it was his.

Fear gradually turned to funny looks and words either gentle or mocking. Magic wasn't believed in any more. Merlin sniffed and made the stars stitched into it dance straight off the brim and into the air.

That shut them up for a while.

He wandered into the convention more out of amusement than anything, or that's what he tried to tell himself. It was not, he insisted, because of an unhealthy attempt to pretend he was living in the past or that magic was still common.

Also, he got 217 compliments on his hat and was told he did an excellent impression of some grumpy sorcerer or other that had been in the movies recently. He also learned that there was a costume competition.

Perhaps next year he should enter.

When Arthur finally showed back up, clothing trends had changed completely. Most of the world was entirely unrecognizable.

Most.

Merlin had kept the hat.


	3. Haunted

The castle was haunted.

That was the warlord who managed to overthrow Gwen and Arthur's descendant said. Haunted, cursed, something. He said he could hear screams coming from the courtyard, and he refused to go back to the dungeons after the first disastrous time. It was cursed.

The manner of his death seemed to back that up. It was possible they could have removed the crown from his head, but given the general smell of burning flesh and the way it seemed almost menacing . . . That was relic, golden or no, that could rest in his grave.

The castle was haunted.

The librarian believed it, a century later. He could hear the ghosts talking in the halls, and the shelves whispered to him. He didn't mind. It got lonely, and it was better to have strange company than none at all.

The castle was haunted.

The old soldier knew it as soon as he walked inside. The old battles still raged in echoes on the stones. He fled from them at first, but he needed work, so he didn't go far, and in time he took comfort in them. There was an honor and a clarity there that was almost refreshing compared to his own life.

The castle was haunted.

The serving maid's daughter took great comfort in the fact. The laughing voices cheered her up, and she could swear that one had a soft spot for her. Every time one of those awful bullies tried to pull something on her, he would protect her. They were friends, and when she took ill and couldn't breathe right, she wasn't scared, because her ghosts were there to keep her company, and she didn't particularly mind joining them.

The castle was haunted.

The archaeologist didn't really believe that, of course, but it almost seemed to breathe with history, and there were some very strange patterns in the dust.

The castle was haunted, and yes, Gwaine, that did come with weightier responsibilities than pulling pranks on the living. Really.

The archaeologists began a minor cold war with one another over the missing elements of their lunches. Arthur would have scolded Gwaine for stealing the apples slices, but seeing as he'd accepted plundered chocolate from Merlin, he thought he'd better not.

. . . . . .

 **A/N: It case it wasn't clear, AU where the whole gang (including Merlin and some new additions) are haunting the castle and having waaay too much fun doing it.**


	4. Haunted: Quirks

There was a cell down in the dungeons where, if you sat in just the right corner, you could hear a girl sobbing.

No one ever noticed the bracelet, still hidden amongst the straw.

There was a grate in the kitchen that the cooks learned not to put any food under. At first they blamed the serving boys, but after the head chef caught a glimpse of a chicken leg floating up to the grate, she just gave up. Any food put under there was an intentional sacrifice, and she planned accordingly.

There were a lot of quirks like that in the castle, some deadly, some harmless. Not all were directly attributable to ghosts, either; there was a section of wall with old protection runes that not even gunpowder managed to breach, and there were rocks down in the caverns beneath it that folk said were still warm from dragon fire stoked with rage.

Some you learned to avoid, some to accept, and some to embrace. There was one, however, that outranked them all. After all, you could placate the poltergeist with apples and use the cursed crossbow when the enemies were so thick you didn't really care who you hit, but there was just nothing to be done about this one. All attempts had failed. At long last, they'd been forced to abandon the room.

Oh, it was safe enough during the day but at night . . . They'd all rather sleep in the weeping cell, thanks.

It was a shame. They said it had once been a king's bedroom.

But no amount of prestige could ever make up for those horrible, ear piercing, not-tangible-enough-to-smother-with-a-pillow _snores._

 _. . . . ._

 **A/N: So I was browsing pinterest and I came across a pin from the episode where Arthur's staying at Gwen's place and she informs him of his fault. Rudeness, for one, but also . . . snoring. The haunting story was still on my mind, so here you are.**


	5. The Mature Response

Gaius felt ashamed of most of his actions while controlled by the goblin. They couldn't be helped, of course, but now he had to face everyone he'd wronged and the shame, illogical as it was, existed.

That was what he told everyone.

And that was all he would ever admit to, under any circumstances.

But, well . . . Slapping Uther on the back of the head had felt _good,_ like it was an opportunity to finally knock some sense into him.

Failing that, he'd certainly had fun trying.


	6. Best Laid Plans

The plan had been elegant in its simplicity.

 _Are you all right, Merlin?_

 _Fine, Guinevere._

Get Emrys alone, unaware, in a place where he would be reluctant to use magic.

 _Clean the leech tank, would you, Merlin?_

 _Of course, Gaius._

 _Are you feeling all right, my boy?_

 _What? Of course._

Take him away.

 _Look, I can't believe I'm saying this, but you're not still upset about the feast, are you?_

 _Of course not, your highness. Will there be anything else?_

 _You did it again!_

 _Did what?_

 _Since when do you call me 'your highness'?_

 _Sorry, sire._

Replace him with a doppelganger.

 _Hey, mate._

 _Sir Gwaine._

 _Ha, that's a laugh. Hey, listen, we were gonna pull a prank on the princess. Want in?_

 _She's a countess, not a princess, and the king will be angry if you upset the Mercians._

 _Wait, what?_

Gather information.

 _Merlin, where's my speech?_

 _I don't know, sire._

 _What do you mean, you don't know? Didn't you write one?_

 _You're giving it to your innermost council, sire. I'm sure I wouldn't know what to say._

 _If I apologize for the feast incident, will you write it?_

 _Sire?_

Then turn in his resignation before the act fell apart and the doppelganger was revealed.

 _Guinevere._

 _Why do you keep calling me that? Usually it's just Gwen._

 _Sorry. Had a lot on my mind._

 _Oh?_

 _I'm resigning._

 _What?_

 _WHAT?_

 _Merlin, mate -_

 _My boy -_

 _Young warlock -_

 _Where's Merlin?_

 _Sire?_

 _Where's Merlin? You're not Merlin. Where is he?_

Even if it did fall apart, who would bother to look besides an old, arthritic man?

 _Sire, surely there are better uses for our resources._

 _Aggy's right, princess. The search grid will be much more efficient if we do it like this._

 _Actually -_

 _Leon, take the lower town. Gwaine, the citadel. I'll lead a group to the forest. If the doppelganger talks, let me know at once._

And who could rescue him if they did?

 _How'd you find me?_

 _It's a long story, I'll tell you lat-_

 _There was a dragon!_

 _Gwaine._

 _You used magic?_

 _. . . No. I just refrained from stabbing the dragon until a more opportune moment._

 _Right. How'd you know it wasn't me?_

 _You're joking, right?_

And even if all that came to pass, they'd have plenty of time to get away.

 _So you are the sorcerers that took my young warlock._

The story's as good as over before it even begins.


	7. Voices

Three people were competing for the controls in Arthur's head at the moment. He didn't recommend the experience.

The Once and Future King was rather calm. He'd known Merlin was Emrys for some time now and didn't see what all the fuss was about. He wanted to give the information the acknowledgement it deserved and then get on with dealing with the problems before them.

Arthur, just Arthur, Merlin's friend Arthur, rather wanted to strangle him but less of in a "I hate you" murderous way, and more of in a "just when I thought I couldn't get more exasperated with you" way. That was overlaid with a sense of hurt and betrayal, a general desire to throw something and do some shouting, and a vague hope this was all some sort of elaborate joke.

King Arthur, who had to suppress how he felt for the good of the kingdom, had caught the full implications of Merlin's almost apologetic, "I'm sort of Emrys," and realized that if he wasn't very careful, he could very well offend not only the world's most powerful sorcerer, but also a foreign dignitary.

Merlin - Emrys, he corrected himself - was starting to look a little fidgety. Arthur lifted a hand to ask for a little more time process this.

Emrys. His manservant was Emrys.

"In the interest of full disclosure . . . "

"Oh, please, continue."

" . . . I'm also the last Dragonlord. And there are kind of two dragons still alive."

"Wonderful."

" . . . That was sarcasm, wasn't it?"

 **No** , the Once and Future King said.

 _Yes_ , Arthur insisted.

You really want to tell a man who can order his dragons to burn the city to the ground that? King Arthur asked.

 **He wouldn't do that. You know that.**

 _Oh, we do? How do we know that? He's been lying to us for years!_

 **You must have been blind as a bat not to notice.**

Deal with that later. Right now we need to deal with Morgana's latest attack. Tell Merlin it's fine and get on with it.

 _Do you think anyone else hears voices like this, or is it just us?_

 **It's a destiny thing. Don't worry about it. Merlin and Morgana hear them too. So do the Knights, but most of them ignore them.**

You've been ignoring Merlin for five minutes now. Say something!

"Right. You're Emrys." He threw his hands up in the air. "Why not? It's not the strangest thing to happen this week."


	8. Most Certainly Not Merlin

**A/N: Set in between S3 and S4 in an AU where Uther was sane. (Or at least as sane as he had been before Morgana's betrayal.) As a result, the knights (except Leon) have left. Also, please note that I do not, in any way, approve of Gwaine's proposed coping method. I just couldn't see a way to keep him in character and want to do anything else.**

. . . . .

If Gwaine had been there, he would have drunk himself into a stupor by now.

Of course, if Gwaine had been there, Lancelot, Percival, and Elyan probably would have been too, and together they might have had a chance of doing something about it.

But they hadn't been.

That hadn't stopped Arthur from hoping. He'd been convinced till the last that something would turn up. Gaius would have slipped him some kind of potion. Gwaine would turn out to be a seer (because honestly, why not, at this point? Arthur didn't think anything would surprise him anymore), and show up with the others at the last second to cut him loose. Or maybe Merlin himself would pull of some sort of magic. He should have been able to pull off some kind of magic.

But he hadn't.

And now he was dead. Bumbling, idiotic, disrespectful, useless, lazy Merlin was dead.

A pitcher crashed into the wall of Arthur's bedchamber. It clattered to the floor where it rolled amongst the rest of his collection.

Arthur had been throwing a lot of things. There was a spot on the wall that was vaguely oval shaped, and he'd been pretending it was Uther's head.

Prat. Dollop head. Clot pole. Arthur. Servants really weren't supposed to be on a first name basis with a prince, much less an insult basis, but somehow, Merlin had rendered rules like that irrelevant. Come to think of it, Merlin had only called him 'sire' when he was upset with him.

Uther had called it disrespectful. A few years ago, Arthur would have agreed with him. But now . . .

Merlin had stood up to him when no one else would. Arthur had thrown him in the stocks. Merlin had responded by saving his life.

Merlin had gone above and beyond his duty to protect Arthur. Arthur had fired him. Merlin had protected him anyway.

He'd drunk poison, offered counsel, listened to every question, doubt, and enchantment induced nonsense. He'd saved his life, his dignity, and his relationship with Guinevere. He'd faced certain death by Arthur's side, been given an opportunity to run, and turned it down flat. He'd kept him going when Arthur had all but given up. Arthur had told him everything.

So when Merlin used magic to stop yet another renegade sorcerer from blasting him out of existence. Arthur had frozen for a moment at the idea that yet another person had betrayed him. The hesitation had earned him a painful burn from a fireball.

Approximately two seconds later, the enemy sorcerer was pinned to the wall, slowly being choked by invisible hands. Merlin had ignored him in favor of running over to fuss over Arthur's burn like a mother hen. At that point, Arthur'd been forced to admit that while Merlin might be magical, a bit frightening, and a much better liar than previously credited, he was also still Merlin, and, thus, loyal.

Unfortunately, Uther had been there, and he had disagreed.

Uther. Not his father. Not his king. Uther would never be either of those things to Arthur again.

He could still smell the smoke. Smoke, flavored with that horrible stench that meant only one thing. He'd bathed three times that night already, and he still couldn't get the stench off him.

He closed his eyes. That was a mistake. Closed eyes meant seeing greedy flames, stealing the only real friend Arthur had ever known, guards holding him back from running to the pyre, Uther just standing there . . .

The screams followed him everywhere. His, Merlin's, Gwen's, Gaius's, they all blended together after a while.

His dagger buried itself in the wall.

He woke up at his desk chair with the worst crick in his neck he'd ever had. His bleary eyes saw a dark haired blurred standing beside him, shaking him. Ah, Merlin must be here with breakfast.

The thought felt wrong somehow. He frowned.

Memory hit him at the same time his vision cleared.

"Good morning, sire. I've been assigned to be your manservant for the time being. My name is - "

"Get. Out."

If his name wasn't Merlin, then Arthur didn't want to hear it.

. . . . .

Uther sighed. He was losing his son. He'd hoped, after three months, Arthur would have been over it by now.

Apparently not. Arthur's eyes made Morgana's seem warm by comparison.

Uther consulted the list in his hand. "Fifteen. You've gone through fifteen manservants in three months."

Arthur looked straight through him.

"What was wrong with this last one?"

Arthur's voice was empty and flat. "He made jokes about brass."

"The one before him had a nice sense of humor."

"He insulted me."

Uther frowned. This was the first he'd heard of that. "So badly that you felt it necessary to give him a concussion?"

"He insulted his predecessors."

Despite common belief, Uther was not so oblivious as to not realize the likelihood that it had been one predecessor in particular the poor boy had insulted.

He was losing his son. He would have had to have been a fool not to see it. He should have put his foot down. He should have ordered Arthur to do - What? How exactly did you order your son to forgive you for doing what was a necessary?

Not even a king could force his son to love him.

He let Arthur go. His son stormed out, ghosts nipping at his heels.

. . . . .

"Rise and shine! You've got a big day ahead of you, and you're running late!"

Blinding sunlight burst through the window as the curtains were forced open. Arthur sat up blearily, his vision still somewhat blurred.

"Merlin?"

The figure came into clearer focus. Bright red hair and eyes entirely the wrong shade of blue came into view.

Not Merlin. Merlin was gone.

"Will, actually. I brought you breakfast - " he tossed him a roll, "but you're going to have to hurry because you're running late."

Arthur caught the roll, but he set it aside. He wasn't hungry.

Will frowned. "Eat. Or I'll have to put another hole in your belt loop, and it won't be because you're getting fat."

"Not hungry," he muttered. It was none of the servant's business anyways.

"I'll tell Gwen," the manservant threatened.

Arthur froze. That was below the belt.

He tore off half the roll and swallowed it, glaring all the while. "Happy?"

"Ecstatic. Now, as I said, you're running late."

"Why didn't you wake me earlier?" He turned to grab a shirt from the wardrobe.

"I was . . . delayed."

 _"Where have you been?"_

 _"Would you be this upset if I'd been dying?"_

 _"No, but you weren't, so where were you?"_

 _"I was dying."_

 _"I don't have time for this."_

The memory stung. Especially now that he had to wonder if the idiot _had_ been dying. What other secrets had Merlin kept from him?

"Sire?" Will asked uncertainly. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," he said curtly.

His hands shook as he reached for his sword.

. . . . .

Will lasted longer than any of the others had. There was something odd about him, something Arthur couldn't quite put his finger on. It hurt, to have him around. He was just a bit too much like Merlin. But he did his job, and he managed to keep Arthur from actually committing patricide, so that was something.

Of course, that was tested when Uther was stupid enough to say something about how he was glad Arthur was "finally moving past that servant boy."

Will had tripped, spilling wine all over Arthur's shirt, and, babbling, managed to manhandle Arthur out of the room and into the hallway.

Arthur stalked down it, trying to stay calm. Breathe. Just breathe.

"What happened to him?" the servant asked quietly.

"I don't want to talk about it," Arthur growled.

Will wouldn't let it go. He grabbed Arthur's elbow. "Please. No one will talk about it. I asked Gwen but . . . she just cried. Please. I need to know."

"No. You really don't."

"Then maybe it would help you to talk about it."

Arthur sighed, running his fingers through his hair. "I had a servant named Merlin once. He was convicted of sorcery. Uther had him burned at the stake."

Will's face had gone remarkably pale. "Oh."

"I tried to stop it, I wanted to stop it, but - " He shrugged. He felt sick.

Strangely, Will looked happier. Relieved. "You didn't hate him? Merlin?"

"Why would I hate him?"

Will just shrugged. A strange grin was tugging at his face.

Arthur frowned. It was almost like -

Gwen came around the corner and crashed into him. "Arthur!"

"Gwen! Are you all right?"

"Yes, fine, thank you." She looked up at him in concern. "And you?"

"Better." It had helped, to talk.

They talked for a long time as he walked her back to her house and kissed her good night. It never occurred to him to wonder where Will had gotten off to.

. . . . .

It had never occurred to Arthur how much they depended on Gaius to tell them how to handle magical threats until he was gone. They muddled through the phoenix, the giant, and another outbreak of trolls, but the Dorocha were a different matter.

Arthur sighed. Research wasn't really his strong suit. His eyes were burning from pouring through the musty old books. Gwen was helping as best she could, but no one had ever thought it important to teach a maidservant how to read, so the amount of assistance she could render was limited.

He finally found a mention of how to defeat them in an old druid text, but his relief was quickly tempered by ice forming in his stomach.

A sacrifice. They needed a human sacrifice.

He swallowed. What was it his father had told him once?

A prince's highest duty is to his realm. He must be willing to give all he is to protect the people in it.  
Tom had died, Morgana had turned, Merlin had died . . . He had failed so many people.

He would not fail in this.

"I'll do it," a quiet voice from behind him said.

He whirled. Will was standing there, looking deadly serious. "I'll go through the veil. I ought to be dead anyway."

"Don't be ridiculous, what are you talking about?"

The red slowly bled from the boy's hair. His eyes darkened, and his face shifted ever so slightly.

Will. Merlin. Merlin. Will.

Arthur's mouth fell open. Something was lodged very firmly in his throat.

Merlin wasn't looking at him. "It took me a while to remember. I couldn't remember anything at first, but it came back to me eventually. Well, almost everything did. I still can't remember actually dying. I think I'm rather thankful for that."

Arthur punched him.

Merlin stumbled back. "What was that for?"

"I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD!"

Merlin rubbed the back of his neck. "Oh. That." He smiled weakly. "I can explain?"

Arthur rubbed his forehead. "Please. Do."

"See, the dragon said one thing, and Freya said another, and it was really rather confusing, but I think I'm more or less immortal, but the dragon was very insistent on not telling you and I'm still not sure - " He broke off. "Okay, I can't explain."

"Clearly." He couldn't fight back the smile for any longer. "It's good to have you back, Merlin."

Merlin's answering smile was brilliant.

"Which is why you're not the one going through the veil. That's my job."

"No way! I have not saved your worthless hide this many times just for you to get yourself killed!"

"Well, if you think I'm going to stand by and watch you die _again_ \- "

"Boys!" Gwen appeared from around the bookshelves, glaring at them both. "Neither of you are going to die. Morgana opened the veil, didn't she?"

They nodded.

"So why don't we just shove her in?" she suggested reasonably.

Merlin looked at Arthur. Arthur looked at Merlin.

"That might actually work. Good thinking, Gwen," Merlin said.

Gwen turned her glare on him. "And you!"

Merlin stepped back, hands raised defensively.

That didn't do him much good when Gwen burst into tears and nearly tackled him with a hug.

 **A/N: I can't remember if in the show Gwen's ever shown reading or not. Since she was both a peasant and female though, it seemed more realistic that she be illiterate.**

 **Dialogue in italics is more or less from the show.**

 **I know this story is hardly original. Plenty of people have written stories about Merlin being burned at the stake, and plenty of those involve Merlin not actually being dead. With the sheer volume of Merlin fanfiction out there, it's inevitable that most ideas have been done before, but normally I try to steer clear of anything quite this used. It's been done before by better authors, and I acknowledge this, but I first wrote it back when I hadn't read quite as much fanfiction, and I'm still quite fond of it.**


	9. Names

_Morwena, daughter of Gladys and Jacob, was drowned at age seven. I was unable to determine if she had magic, but she drew in the dirt with her left hand and had what folk called an evil eye. The drawings were beautiful._

He'd been relatively new when the afanc was hatched in the city's water supply and Gwen had been nearly burned at the stake. He'd been confused at what she thought would be her last request. Of course he'd remember; how could he not?

All too easily, he learned. All too easily.

 _Thomas Collins, son of Mary Collins, was beheaded at age forty for conjuring pictures out of sparks. His mother died in an attempt to avenge him. There are no further descendants to carry on the line._

You didn't talk about the people who died on the pyre. You didn't remember every servant who died in an attack, even if you were one yourself. How could you? You'd get in trouble for remembering fondly those who were executed, and no one could remember all the dead. There were too many. You'd go mad trying to think of them all.

 _Halig brought in a cursed druid girl. Name: Unknown. Age: Unknown. Family: Unknown. She turned into a bastet and was hunted and killed in the Lower Town. Her body was not recovered._

He forgot. He shoved grief aside. He swore up and down there'd be a better tomorrow.

You forgot. It was the only way.

 _Bartholomew Wilkins, orphaned in the dragon attack, was killed in the siege by reanimated skeletons at age five. He was buried in a mass grave with the others._

But someone had to remember, he realized eventually. Someone had to. It had to matter, or else what were they fighting for?

 _M̶e̶r̶l̶i̶n̶,̶ a̶g̶e̶ ̶n̶i̶n̶e̶t̶e̶e̶n̶,̶ ̶f̶r̶o̶m̶ ̶p̶o̶i̶s̶o̶n̶ ̶-̶ ̶M̶e̶r̶l̶i̶n̶,̶ ̶a̶g̶e̶ ̶t̶w̶e̶n̶t̶y̶,̶ ̶a̶c̶c̶u̶s̶e̶d̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶t̶r̶e̶a̶s̶o̶n̶ ̶-̶ ̶M̶e̶r̶l̶i̶n̶,̶ ̶a̶g̶e̶ ̶t̶w̶e̶n̶t̶y̶-̶t̶w̶o̶,̶ ̶m̶a̶c̶e̶ ̶w̶o̶u̶n̶d̶ ̶-̶ ̶_ _I am beginning to think that boy will live forever._

That was when he saw the list Geoffrey had made.

The librarian let him add in a few that had been overlooked.

And when Morgana killed him in her brief tenure as queen, Merlin quietly took the book to his own room and added one more name to the list.


	10. Safe House

Ever since she had ripped open the Veil, Morgana had sensed the patches of ground where her people had died like bleeding pustules across the land. They burdened her in every village she fled to and burned her soul in her sleep.

Ealdor was no different.

Camelot's knights had burned the village's wise woman in the square. The creek babbled with the voices of desperate children. The field ached with the bones of sorcerers crossing the border who had not run fast enough.

Ealdor had been a natural wellspring of magic once, an irony that both infuriated and amused her when she considered who the place had spawned and what he had done to thwart magic's return.

The magic of the place was gone now, sucked clean. The village named for eternity was dying, even if none of the inhabitants could sense it.

She'd just have to help a few of them along, wouldn't she?

 _Yes, Merlin, I know where your mother lives. Don't you think you should have thought of that before you crossed me?_

She remembered where the little hut was, but she almost didn't recognize it. When she had first come here, all she had been able to see were the frail walls and the dirt floor.

Now she could see the blinding gold of magic humming comfortingly around it.

 _Love. Warmth. Protection._

Now she could see the signs, invisible to all but magical eyes, etched on the walls.

 _Safe house. Good woman. Food. No traps. Vengeance be on the one that hurts her._

She was breathless from the sheer shock of it. Who would have thought it?

How dare he? How dare he turn on her if he had not even the excuse of his upbringing? How dare he condemn her for what she couldn't help?

She could hear Hunith humming inside.

She briefly considered just leaving, but it was getting dark, and another possibility was far more enticing.

She refreshed the aging spell she'd used to disguise herself with a quiet murmur and knocked. Hunith, generous woman that she was, was happy to share her meager supper and give up her bed to a traveler she assumed was an elderly woman.

Morgana lay under the thin blanket and pulled it closer to herself as she tried to pull some of the warmth and light from the magic dancing on the walls into herself.

The magic shuddered and drew back, defenses slamming down and sending a blinding pain through her eyes.

She muffled a scream before Hunith could hear it.

This house's comfort was not for her.

. . . . .

 **A/N: In America during the Great Depression, drifters would scratch signs onto fence posts and walls to let others know what to expect from the people inside. Good food? Dog that bit? Chance of work? Someone that would call the police? I loved the idea of sorcerers fleeing Camelot doing the same.**


	11. And Curses Like Rain

They said Emrys was so powerful, he could curse a place without half trying.

They used to say he could bless a place without half trying too, but it had been so long since he'd been happy enough to do it, that piece of lore had been all but forgotten. Blessings had been for villages after nights of feasting for hard won victories. Blessings had been for neckerchiefs in Camelot red and embroidered with Ygraine's symbol, given as gifts. Blessings were for grinning knights and golden kings and a half glimpsed guardian of a forbidden lake. Blessings were for brightly colored balls and dried flowers children had presented with carefree smiles.

Curses were for gravestones and burned villages helped too late, blood soaked battlefields and bards and books that had gotten the stories all wrong.

There were a great many curses these days.

Curses were shadows and blood and half glimpsed _things_ straight from Emrys nightmares. Curses were whispers and shudders and low bows before he could be offended. Curses were rotting fields and food that turned to rotting meat and maggots in your mouth.

Blessings were sunlight and hearings and good fortune, but no one remembered that anymore. No one had written ballads about a bright red ball that would always return to its owner, and no one would have recognized the weatherbeaten thing anyway.

Curses were blessings gone sour, people said, but they were wrong. The blessings were still there, just as the curses had been there in the beginning, glimmers of things on the edges of the more potent spells.

For three days straight, he blotted out the sun. Deadly fire followed whoever received a certain copper coin. A doll found in the woods was brought back to a village that drowned in blood a week later.

But a little girl gave the strange, sad man flowers, and he twitched a coin out from behind her ear, and told her to keep it, that it would bring luck.

It was an odd coin. She didn't recognize the face on it.

But the sun came out when she held it to the sky, and her papa's crop survived when no one else's did.

He's a hero, people used to say.

He'll kill us all, people say now.

I think he's lonely, a little boy with hair like gold said. He's lonely and possibly a bit of an idiot.

The people gave the boy a wide berth before he could be struck by lightning.

The crops were spectacular that year.

He's a monster, people used to say.

He's saved us all, people say now.

They're all idiots, a warlock says, and his king tells him he's one to talk.

. . . . .

 **A/N: I wanted to write something creepy in honor of Halloween. This wasn't quite what I was going for. I'll try again tomorrow.**


	12. Friends for Life

_Merlin was three years old when the knights came for Balinor._

 _. . . . ._

Arthur was five when he met the other boy for the first time. He had been crying because the gash on his knee hurt quite a bit, but he'd been trying not to, because his father had looked at him, full of disappointment, and said that princes didn't cry.

He jumped to his feet hastily and scrubbed at his face. "What do you want?" he demanded angrily.

The boy held out a ball. "Wanna play?"

The boy was younger than him and even at five, Arthur knew he wasn't one of the noble's sons. His father wouldn't approve of him playing with a peasant.

"No," he said sullenly.

"Oh." The boy peered at him and pointed at his knee. "Ouch."

"It doesn't hurt," Arthur lied.

The other boy looked enormously impressed. "How'd you get it?"

Arthur may have exaggerated the story a little, but the basics remained the same, and by the end of the day, they were chasing the ball all over the castle.

"What's your name?" Arthur finally remembered to ask.

"Got two, but I can only tell you one," he said with all the solemnity a three year old could muster.

"I've got two names too, but I'll only tell you the first one," Arthur countered immediately. "I'm Arthur." Normally, he would have rolled out his status as a prince ages ago, but he'd kept his mouth shut this time. He didn't want to scare the other boy off.

"Okay," the boy agreed with a blinding smile. "You can call me Merlin."

. . . . .

 _They burned down the whole village. Balinor went to fight them. Hunith grabbed Merlin and ran for the woods._

. . . . .

"What's it like, being a prince?" Merlin was ten now and had long ago learned that inconsequential fact.

Arthur threw himself into the hay with a huff. "Stupid. You're not allowed to do _anything_ and Father - " He shut his mouth.

Merlin's face grew almost frightening in its darkness. "I know," he said. "I don't like him."

"He's the king," Arthur said half heartedly.

"Shouldn't your first protest have been he's your father?" He tossed Arthur an apple from the barrel and started juggling three more.

"He killed her," Arthur said quietly. "He had her drowned. She was our age."

More apples drifted of their own accord out of the barrel into Merlin's capable hands. Arthur was too used to it to be bothered. No one came here but them.

"Aren't you going to eat one of those?"

Merlin shrugged, face still dark. "Not hungry."

"I won't let him hurt you," Arthur promised. "Don't worry so much."

Merlin laughed, and all was golden in his face again. "It's you I worry about. He doesn't even know I exist."

. . . . .

 _"Hide here, Merlin. Don't come out, no matter what."_

. . . . .

Merlin scowled at Morgana as she rode into the courtyard. "I don't like her."

"Her parents are dead. Give her a little sympathy."

"My parents are dead too," he pointed out. "And so is Gwen's mother, and your mother, and we'd all be better off if your father - "

"Merlin," he hissed under his breath.

He at least waited until the group of knights had passed by before he continued. "Anyway, this has nothing to do with her personality."

"Or the fact that I've been spending more time with her lately and less with you?"

Merlin's eyes followed her carefully. He relaxed. "I suppose you're right. I'm being ridiculous."

Something about it didn't sound right. "Not ridiculous. Just . . . cautious."

"Paranoid."

"Your usual self, in other words."

"Hey!"

Morgana tripped down a flight of stairs and broke her skull. Gaius couldn't save her.

"I'm sorry," Merlin breathed at her bedside.

Gaius, sitting on the other side, didn't ask what for. He didn't say a word as Merlin walked away, but the warlock thought he might be crying.

At least Arthur was safe.

. . . . .

 _There was blood on the forest floor, and Merlin couldn't help crying for his mother. He didn't want to, he knew he wasn't supposed to, but he wanted her. Now. Where was she?_

 _One of the shiny men with the cloaks like blood turned towards the bushes where he was hiding. "What have we here?"_

 _Merlin ran._

 _. . . . ._

At his knighting ceremony, Merlin clapped the hardest. His face was shining. "Well done," he enthused.

Arthur grinned at him. A lady, thinking the smile was for her, fell over herself to go congratulate him. Merlin rolled his eyes.

It was the last moment of levity for a while.

Uther wanted his son to go hunt down a tribe of druids.

"What should I do?" Arthur asked him, whitefaced, later. "I can't let them die."

"I'll warn them when we get close," Merlin assured him. "You'll never catch up with them."

Merlin warned the tribe's seer in dreams.

"How can they constantly know our every movement?" Sir Bors demanded.

Arthur looked at him like he was an idiot. "Magic."

Technically, true.

. . . . .

 _The trees themselves tried to slow the path of the running knights. Magic rose up from the earth to aid the young Emrys._

 _He ran, tiny heart pounding. He fell. He pushed himself to his feet. Blood spattered his knees._

 _. . . . ._

"I love Samhein. Magic's so much stronger this time of year."

Merlin did always seem more vibrant on the holiday. "Only you would dare say that in the middle of the citadel," Arthur said.

"Only I could get away with it. And to the prince, too." Merlin peered around the pillar they were hiding behind. "I think Princess Vivian's gone if you want to come out now."

Arthur grimaced. "I suppose I'd better."

"Steal some of the sweets for Gwen," he suggested. "She loves them, and there's never enough time to eat, preparing for these things."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'll - " Merlin jerked back behind the pillar. "Remind me again why you had to allow Mordred to be Sir Kay's servant?"

"I could hardly stop it," he pointed out. "What's wrong with him?"

"He knows," Merlin said darkly. "And he's trying to get rid of me. I'd return the favor, but he keeps getting away from me. He's laid so many traps in the castle I can barely turn around anymore."

Something hardened in Arthur's face. "I'll take care of it," he promised.

He did.

. . . . .

 _He fell again. This time he twisted his ankle._

 _The knights were getting closer._

 _He tried to run, but he fell again. He was crying as he dragged himself away._

. . . . .

"You saved my life back there," Arthur said. "Thank you."

"Well, I could hardly let the new king get killed on his coronation day," Merlin said, waving a hand dismissively. "Think what it would have done to Guinevere."

"Right," Arthur drawled.

Merlin grinned. "It wasn't even an enchanted knife. It was so easy it wasn't even fun."

"I'll make a royal proclamation that all assassins must be more amusing in the future."

"As long as amusing doesn't equal competent."

"Mm." He glanced at him sideways. "What am I supposed to tell everyone happened to the assassin?"

"Magic is legal now. Someone getting strangled by invisible hands isn't out of the question."

"Yes, but who should I say did it?"

"You could claim you have magic."

"Really, Merlin?"

He shrugged. "You have me. That's close enough."

"I wish I could just give you credit," he grumbled. "You deserve more than you get."

"Anything for you, Arthur. You know that's all I care about."

They were silent for a long while. "You aren't leaving, are you?" Arthur finally blurted out. "Now that I'm king?"

"What, you think just because you're king means you won't need me anymore?"

"I know full well I do."

"Then I'm staying. Even if I can't be your Court Warlock."

"It is hard to promote someone no one else can see."

"True. Think maybe Gaius could make up a potion for that?"

The words were a joke, but Arthur took them seriously. "I'll ask."

"Really?" He brightened.

"Of course, that would mean Gwaine could chase you when you were started playing at being a poltergeist in his room . . . "

"Other people deserve the joys of a personal haunting too, Arthur. Don't be greedy."

. . . . .

 _He was just a child._

 _That didn't stop the knight's sword from plunging down._

 _Destiny sighed and made arrangements._

 _. . . . ._

 **A/N: Happy Halloween, folks. Hope this was a suitable piece for the holiday.**


	13. Fire, Water, Earth, and Air

He watched the fire at night. Held his hand almost close enough to burn. He watched the flames dance and thought, I've mastered you.

He could summon them, dismiss them, shape them, walk through them. It had been five hundred years since someone had tried to throw him onto one.

That didn't stop them, every night, from claiming him in his dreams.

He watered the horses. Went swimming. He let it flow over his hands. He thought, I've mastered you.

He could summon it, dismiss it, shape it, breathe despite it.

That didn't stop it, every night, from dragging him to its depths.

He worked the earth for the first eighteen years of his life. Summoned metals from it. He braced himself against the stone. He thought, I've mastered you.

That didn't stop it, every night, from tripping him while he fled the monsters in their metal shells that caught him and bound him with the metal from its depths.

But the air . . .

It taunted him. Caressed him. Let him fall but answered his call without fail.

Kilgharrah, then Aithusa, then the Eastern dragons he found, wyverns when he was desperate - They carried him up into it and noticed only his whoops of joy, never his sighs of relief. He thought, Blow away all this pain. Let me be a part of you.

That never stopped him, every time, from returning to the earth, to the fire, to the water.

The wind held no grudges. It woke him every night with sharp blasts of frigid air, and when he woke shaking, it wrapped around him like a blanket.

It thought, I'll wait with you.

 **A/N: I thought this was going to be a story about Merlin being a pyromaniac.**  
 **Apparently, I was wrong.**


	14. Go Ahead

Merlin had faced death frequently over his long, long life. Mobs, dragons, plagues, assassins . . . Everything, really. He was used to it by now.

He still couldn't repress a hysterical laugh. This was a new one.

The assassin's eyes got even colder, if that was possible. "I said, _drop your weapon_." The gun was steady in his hands.

"I am a weapon," Merlin managed to choke out around the laughs that were suspiciously like sobs. "Your weapon, my king."

Arthur fired.


	15. Shoot

Arthur's seen a lot as an assassin.

But no victim has ever pulled him into a hug with blood still pulsing out of what should have been a lethal bullet hole Arthur put there and promised to protect him.

The man was obviously more than he seemed and, equally obviously an -

Idiot.

Oh, shoot.

He'd just shot Merlin.

Gwaine was never going to let him hear the end of this.


	16. Festival

Up, up, up went the balls, brightly colored and gleaming.

Arthur laughed to see them, clapping his pudgy toddler hands and pointing to all the bright colors.

The juggler swept a bow that hid his eyes, and the balls turned to birds and flew off one by one.

The last one hit the floor and rolled instead.

So did the juggler's head.

Arthur decided he didn't much like juggling after all.

. . . . .

Up, up, up went the balls, blood red and gleaming.

Arthur hadn't wanted them for his birthday, but some steward had arranged it, and what could he say? No, don't, because that was the first time I saw a man die and I'll have nightmares? Prince Regents didn't have nightmares. Nightmares were childish things, and executions were necessary, and it was _fine_. Really.

His father laughed like a child and clapped his hands, and that made it worse, because it underlined just how wrong this had all become. He set his face into his best princely mask and tried to smile, because this was all for him after all.

The acrobats and entertainers came out one by one, and he wished he could see Merlin's face instead of the entertainment because he had seemed so excited earlier and that joy was so much brighter than the mockery that cut so deeply beside him.

For the last act he was spinning around and around, humiliated and terrified, but he could see Merlin now, and somehow he was strangely reassured.

Then he was heavy with drugs and his father was dying.

Arthur really, really hated entertainers.

. . . . .

Up, up, up went the eggs and only Merlin's lips were smiling.

His eyes were dark and full of things Arthur suddenly realized he didn't understand, and he wasn't sure how long they'd been there.

He tilted his head up and hid his eyes and the eggs disappeared until there was only one, and Arthur _knew._

"I didn't know you could juggle."

"I've got lots of hidden talents."

"Like Morgana did?"

He should have drawn his sword, but he couldn't, somehow. Given the choice, Lancelot was Guinevere's first pick, only Lancelot was dead now, because of him, and his own uncle was a traitor, and his half sister wanted him dead, and his father would never approve of what he'd done and even Leon looks doubtful -

Elyan must hate him, privately, for what he did to the man's sister, and he's fairly sure the only reason Gwaine hadn't run off was Merlin. He was fairly certain Gaius had hated his father by the end and had no idea about how the man felt about him, and who knew what Percival thought, the man barely talked -

A king had to be believe he was the best ruler possible for his people.

Merlin had been the last source of Arthur's for a long time now. If even he didn't believe . . . Well, good kings listened to their people. If everyone turned traitor, maybe the problem wasn't everyone. Maybe the problem was you.

Merlin had turned and was facing him. His eyes faded from frantic to worried to determined. He gripped Arthur's arms in his own. "Not like Morgana," he promised. "Never like her. More like a . . . light in a cave. To keep the spiders far enough back that you can do your job."

He didn't know what to think, but the old faith was shining in Merlin's eyes brighter than ever, and he thought that might be enough to start with.

. . . . .

Up, up, up went the kingly duties, and he certainly felt like an acrobat as he tried to keep them all in the air.

Juggling schedules, balancing factions, taming the lions of diplomacy . . . What he needed was a knife throwing act, that could solve half his problems right there.

Merlin walked in, and he wasn't sure if it counted as juggling if you weren't using your hands, but he suspected it took just as much skill to keep the fruit moving and changing colors like it was.

Merlin swept an elaborate bow but kept his head up so Arthur could see the wink that temporarily covered one of his golden eyes, and the fruit into butterflies - butterflies, Merlin, really - and flew away one by one.

The last one was caught by Arthur and lobbed at Merlin's head instead.

Merlin retaliated with a pillow.

Arthur decided that juggling might not be so bad after all.

. . . . .

 **A/N: Obviously a number of episodes are referenced here. I'd like to point out the section where Merlin is juggling eggs in particular - there are two lines, "I didn't know you could juggle" and Merlin's response, that are more or less directly from "Arthur's Bane, Part 1". I claim no credit for those, even though they might be paraphrased. Arthur's thoughts on kingship being about truly believing you're the best for the job were inspired by Brandon Sanderson's Mistborn trilogy, specifically the second book,** **The Well of Ascension.** **  
**

 **This was inspired by a pin on Pinterest from a board I follow where Merlin's excited about Arthur's birthday celebration. Naturally, I decided tragedy was in order, and somehow that turned into an AU reveal based on . . . juggling.**

 **In my defense, I've never read of anyone else doing the reveal like that so . . . It had to be done at least once?**


	17. Memory's a Funny Thing

History was littered with stories about how Emrys had served this king or deposed that one, ended this war and toppled that kingdom. He had a tendency to find the great heroes and villains of an age and find a way to interfere one way or the other.

Only people didn't say interfere, because that had bad connotations and most of the time Emrys's intervention was for the better, and even when he made mistakes, people didn't like to bring it up.

Surprising how destroying a few castles with a couple of muttered words made people hesitant to irritate you.

Arthur used to love reading the stories when he was a boy. When his nurse asked him which one was his favorite, though, he told her he hadn't found it yet. He was still looking.

The nurse had asked him what he was looking for.

"The one with me in it."

The nurse had laughed. Of course a five year old would want a story in it where he was a great hero fighting alongside Emrys.

Arthur wasn't joking, and when she tried to make one up, he told her flatly that she was doing it wrong.

It was cute, in a five year old. In a twenty year old man it would be viewed differently, which was why Arthur kept his mouth shut.

He _knew_. He _remembered._

He was starting to wonder if he was the only one who did.

In not a single book was he ever mentioned.

Camelot was, but it was a Camelot after his time, a Camelot where the grandchildren of everyone he had known would have been dead. It appeared only scarcely, more mentioned than anything else, and the details were blurry and contradictory.

Like when people had asked him about it, Merlin's memories had been fuzzy, and he hadn't cared enough to try and get them back.

He was always Merlin in Arthur's head. Calling him Emrys made him feel the same way he had when Merlin had sarcastically called him _"sire"_. It seemed more hurtful, almost dehumanizing, than respectful. If he was Emrys, he was untouchable, nearly all powerful. If he was Merlin, he was funny and brave and loyal and a bit of an idiot.

And, apparently, forgetful.

Arthur couldn't blame him, he supposed. He had been only one in a long line of warriors and kings Merlin had fought alongside. He hadn't been anything special, except for the fact that he thought he might have been the first. Time would have dulled the memories. It was understandable.

Or maybe Merlin remembered all too well and didn't want to talk about it. Maybe he was embarrassed. The stocks weren't quite as glorious as most of the tales after all.

 _And whose fault was that?_ a small voice hissed.

. . . Probably not Merlin's.

He decided Merlin didn't remember, because that hurt less. Loss of memory was natural and unavoidable. Suppression was deliberate and unlike him besides.

It was just hard to admit to himself that someone who was still so important to him no longer even thought of him enough to care at all.

He didn't go looking for Merlin. Well, he tracked his movements constantly, but those were pretty much public record. He didn't try to _meet_ him though. It wasn't the near impossibility of the task that stopped him - he caught himself longing for the challenge, actually - but it had nearly killed him in his first life to look at his father and realize the man had no idea who he was. If Merlin did . . .

That was the plan. Avoid Merlin. Try and find the others. Avoid throwing things as much as possible.

Then some idiot - not Merlin - unearthed Cornelius Sigan again, and Arthur was throwing a lot of things, mainly at reanimated gargoyles, until he managed to get his hands on a proper weapon. At the end of the day, the city managed to hold off the sorcerer until Merlin got there and finished him off, and Arthur had distinguished himself as the man who had organized the resistance and saved a lot of lives. It was decided he should be rewarded with a medal.

Presented by Emrys.

He thought he remembered Merlin once saying something about destiny, and he decided he believed in it if for no other reason than that someone, somewhere, apparently had it out for him.

On the bright side, Gwen was one of the people he'd saved during the attack, and she kissed him before he walked onto the stage which he took to mean she remembered. It wasn't the sort of kiss she'd give a stranger, even one who had saved her life.

He didn't care about the cameras or the crowd. He was used to attention from his old life, even if this one had been quieter.

Relatively quieter, that is. Emphasis on the "relatively".

Merlin tensed when he walked onto the stage. Had he picked up on Arthur's own defensive stance?

He was so close. His - all right, fine, he'd admit it - his friend was so close, but not quite close enough. Less than a foot away, but left somewhere millennia in the past.

The medal settled cold against his neck while the mayor began speechifying.

"You look very familiar," Merlin whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

"We've met before." The word felt bitter even to his own ears.

"I'd have remembered that."

"I'd have thought so too."

He looked straight ahead for the rest of the ceremony and headed down the stairs immediately after.

Merlin followed. Of course he did.

"When was it?" he demanded, drawing a curious look from Gwen. "Had I been knocked on the head or something?"

"You acted like it most of the time."

"Arthur!" Gwen smacked his arm.

Merlin turned to look at her for the first time. He blinked. "Gwen."

Arthur threw his hands up in the air. "Her, you remember."

"Of course I do, she was the first girl I ever - Wait. There's no way I missed two of you. You _remember_? You remember Camelot?"

"Unlike certain idiot warlocks, yes."

A strangely nostalgic look came over his face. "Do you have any idea how long its been since someone called me an idiot?"

"Merlin?" Gwen prompted gently.

He jumped. "Right, sorry. I get . . . distracted. Easily. Even more than I used to." He frowned. "You thought I didn't remember?"

"You said I looked 'familiar'."

"I thought that would go over better than, 'By the way, you used to be king of this place called Camelot and I was your manservant. We fought monsters. It was fun.'"

"You never brought us up! They've written books about the year you spent as an innkeeper for crying out loud, and you never thought to mention the undead armies?"

"They mess them up! They always mess the stories up. They never get them right, not once! I didn't want . . . You tell a story, and it doesn't belong to you anymore. People twist it and laugh at the wrong parts and they don't _understand_. They think of it as just as a story, and they - They make fun, sometimes, or they try to prove a point with it, and I could handle it with the others but not with you. It hurt too much."

"Oh."

Merlin rubbed the back of his neck. "So everyone remembers. Sorry."

Gwen was giving both of them a _look_. Arthur knew that look. He backed away a bit.

Merlin, awesomely powerful mage that he was, edged behind Arthur.

A thought struck Arthur suddenly. "What were you saying earlier?"

Merlin froze. "When?"

"About Gwen."

"Oh. Er, nothing. Absolutely nothing."

"Your first something." He glanced at Gwen. She looked torn between anxiousness and amusement and was worrying her bottom lip.

"Gwen?" Merlin squeaked.

Arthur looked between the two of them. A sudden memory of purple flowers and a hasty excuse bloomed in his mind.

"You kissed her, didn't you."

"Absolutely not."

"Gwen - "

"We are not doing this. We are not spending our reunion standing here arguing. We are going to talk, and we are going to call the others. But first, the two of you are going to stop acting like idiots and hug."

"Gwen - "

" _Now._ "

One king, one Emrys, and one glaring Guinevere.

The boys never stood a chance.


	18. Avengers: Civil War

It hurt to watch. Like watching Morgana fall or Lancelot's shade and Arthur fight all over again.

It wasn't right. Watching the fights, he kept thinking - No. This isn't how it works. This isn't what happens. Natasha doesn't lie to Clint about which side she's on and leave him to die when he figures out the truth. Steve doesn't bring his shield down on what he knows is a weak point in Tony's armor. Vision doesn't destroy Falcon's wings when he's two hundred feet above the ground.

This isn't how it works. They save each other. They'd do anything for each other. This isn't - They couldn't - They were brothers.

(Like the knights had been, until Mordred had turned away.)

They were _family._

(Like Morgana had been, until Morgause had come.)

They were good people.

(Uther had been a good king, once. Morgana had been sweet. And Merlin . . . Merlin had been good too. Once.)

He couldn't quite keep track of the rhetoric. He wasn't sure what to make of it all. He understood all too well what Steve was feeling, but was Bucky like Arthur would be someday, returned in full, or was he like Lancelot's shade, there only to destroy? He understood well what was legal and what was right didn't always coincide, but he also knew the need for rules.

(You have to get up in the morning. All the way up, even if you can't remember why it's important.

You can't kill people unless you have a really good reason. Making fun of Arthur is not a good reason. You used to do that too, remember.

You have to eat. Starvation may not kill you, but you will pass out.

You have to spend at least an hour remembering, no matter how much it hurts. If you don't keep the memories fresh, you'll forget.

No matter how much you want to forget, remember anyway. If you don't, you'll regret it later.

You cannot snap at people just because its the anniversary of someone's death. If you do, you'll never stop snapping at people.)

Rules were important.

It hurt to listen. To know what was coming. To watch and wait for the horrible news that someone had fallen.

(Will, Freya, Balinor, Lancelot, Elyan, Gwaine, _Arthur_ , Gaius, Hunith, Gwen, Percival, Leon, Gili, John, Robin - )

Fight for us, they said. We're right. Fight for us. We're your friends.

Merlin runs away and hides and turns on children's cartoons instead of the news. He works in the garden by hand and hums loudly and does anything to just _stop thinking._

He goes to town and sees the headline blaring across the newspaper, and he sobs until he throws up, because he knew, he knew, he _knew._

But he can never, ever, stop it.


	19. It Could Have Been Worse

Merlin read a lot of takes on Arthurian legend. He couldn't help himself. He kept telling himself he would stop, that he knew better, but he just couldn't help himself.

It hurt to read about versions of Arthur that achieved things the real Arthur never had a chance to. It hurt to read about Morgana's that did the right thing. It hurt to see all that could have been.

And it was infuriating to read about Guinevere being dismissed as silly or stupid or a bad queen. It was infuriating when they painted Morgana as justified or Uther as heroic. And Merlin had not been a manipulative old man, thank you very much, and he had most certainly not helped Uther commit adultery with Gorlois' wife. Just . . . No.

All of it hurt. It hurt when it was similar and it hurt when it was evident just how much had been forgotten. It hurt when they painted his friends as villains and it hurt when they were glorified as saints. It always hurt, but he just couldn't seem to stop.

This one was no exception. It was a reincarnation story, so at least he didn't have to read about Arthur dying again, and it kept everyone on the right side, so that was something. It _did_ paint Mordred and Arthur as half brothers, but honestly, by this point he was used to the weird family mix-ups. He was starting to wonder where he was - seriously, there was no way Arthur would have reached that age without him - but there was a fair bit of Uther bashing. He liked Uther bashing. It was therapeutic.

Gwen was a perky, blonde, idiot. Perky, he could see, if you were squinting. Blonde, no. Idiot, no. And the only person he'd ever heard call Lancelot "Lance" was Gwaine, and he didn't think it was a coincidence that Gwaine had walked away from the practice field that day with a few extra bruises.

Still. He'd read worse. The perspective was interesting, too - he wasn't quite sure who the main character had been in her original life, but judging by the fact she was falling in love with Arthur and her name was Elaine, he was picturing her as Elena. Princess Elena'd been pretty much forgotten though, so he was curious to see who the author would paint her as.

Annnd she ended up with Arthur. Well, Merlin wasn't there to put things back on track. Of course she did. And it turns out she was -

Wait, what?

No. No way.

THE LADY OF THE LAKE?!

Arthur had been kissing _Freya?_

He did not need that picture in his head, thank you very much.

Still, he supposed indignation was better than moping . . .

. . . .

 **A/N:** **Avalon High** **by Meg Cabot is a real book with a premise I'm pretty sure you can guess from the title. It's a quick read with some good parts, but as a Christian I objected to the way the characters kept taking the Lord's name in vain, and as a reader, I objected to the way the rest of the series was available solely as bad graphic novels. I didn't object to them shipping Arthur, or Will as his reincarnation's called, wtih Elaine in the book, but it hit me suddenly what Merlin's reaction would be. Thus, this.**


	20. Fear

**A/N: AU where things happen in a different order and change more than you'd think.**

 **. . . . .**

The boy is obviously scared of him. Arthur knows that as soon as he sees him. He hides it well, but the boy is absolutely _terrified._

Which makes it all the more shocking when he quite politely tells Arthur to stop throwing knives at the servant.

Arthur pushes back, metaphorically speaking, a mocking edge to his voice as he asks, "Don't you know who I am?" He doesn't push as hard as he could though, because it feels wrong. Not just the muddled, frustrated sensation of wrong he got from his father's latest order that he was trying to work out by throwing the knives in the first place, but a gut deep sense that he wants to be the kind of king someday who stops that sort of wrenching terror in the boy's eyes, not the kind that makes it worse.

"A knight. That doesn't give you the right to hurt your own servants, though."

He's angry and he doesn't like the way his insides twist at the boy's words, so he reveals his identity with a little too much relish.

The boy looks like he's about to throw up.

He still doesn't back down though.

Arthur feels trapped. He can't back down, and he refuses to steamroll forward, and Sir Leon's coming over to see why training had stopped.

"Help him clean this mess up if you object to it so much," he snaps, gesturing to the target and the knives and catches himself wishing there were servants that could come along and clean up the rest of the mess too - the Druids that he didn't really want to hunt no matter what his father said, the loneliness that the laughing jackals behind him only made worse, this constant sensation that he was failing at something essential.

The boy's eyes light up, and he rushes to do as he was told, and there is far too much relief in the set of his shoulders.

 _Wrong, wrong, wrong,_ a voice inside him whispers. This is all wrong. What does he look like to an outsider if this is the reaction he inspires?

He doesn't want to know.

. . . . .

He's in the street when he sees the boy again and hears him introducing himself to a girl as Merlin.

There's something about that name that strikes him. Something about the boy that makes the idea of him being afraid laughable, and of him being afraid of Arthur sickening.

Something.

He calls out to him because he wants to understand, not to start something, but the yapping dogs of knights at his back are already cackling in anticipation of their idea of fun, and the hunted look on Merlin's face makes him inexplicably angry.

The insults aren't fair, and he knows it, but Merlin just takes it, and, as soon as he can, he slips away.

It surprises Arthur when he's swallowed his shame enough to consider it. What cowed the boy today that he wouldn't stand up for himself as he did yesterday, despite his terror?

Except it hadn't been for himself yesterday, had it? It had been for someone else.

He throws himself into the sparring match even harder when he thinks about the kind of courage that must have taken, abruptly furious with the knights looking forward to carrying out his father's orders, with their fawning attention to him, with the pride they take in this pageantry, with everything.

. . . . .

The boy - no, Merlin, the boy was Merlin, why did the name not quite fit? - saves his life.

Arthur can't quite fathom why, as the boy jumps away from him at the first opportunity like touching Arthur causes him physical pain. He cringes away from Uther when the king turns his eyes on him and appears more frozen than jubilant as the king talks about a reward.

When his father announces what that reward will be, Merlin looks as if he's just received a death sentence. Arthur protests on behalf of the boy, but he's ignored.

This is going to be torturous for everyone involved, Arthur thinks grimly. Except for his father, who won't have to live with the results.

Arthur loves his father, he _does_ , he just wonders whether love is supposed to make you feel this dull and angry and hurt all the time.

He supposes it must; he feels the same about Morgana, and she's the only other example he can think of.

. . . . .

 _Sire. Your Highness._

It takes him two weeks to notice that his new servant never calls him "my lord". It could mean nothing, of course, but he can't help feeling that it's Merlin's way of refusing to accept any sort of tie to him, any sort of responsibility or bond.

He barely talks, he avoids Arthur as much as possible, he looks like he fears for his life during training, and he always touches Arthur's sword like he's just been handed the bones of a child.

Arthur would fire him for his own good if he thought he could get away with it.

By this point, he has to admit he's curious and, well, concerned. This should not be one of his people's reactions to their prince. The fact that it is is worrisome.

He tries talking to the boy, but he's lucky to get monosyllabic answers.

Until -

"Sir Valiant has a magic shield with snakes that come to life, and he's using it to cheat in the tournament. I have proof."

Merlin shoves a snake's head at him. Arthur blinks at it.

"If you check his shield, you'll notice there's one less than there used to be. They're venomous."

Arthur stares at him.

Merlin goes red, then white. " . . . Sire."

"Right," Arthur finally manages. He doesn't say anything about differences in station or proof because Merlin looks like he's fully aware of all of this, and he wouldn't have worked himself up to say it if he didn't think it was absolutely, positively, necessary.

Sure enough, one of the snake's heads is now missing on the shield. Arthur believes Merlin, one hundred percent, but no one else does.

Arthur looks at his father when Sir Valiant accuses him of cowardice and thinks of all he's done for his father, all the enemies he's killed and monsters he's fought, yet his father _asks_ -

Merlin is white lipped and tense when Arthur storms into the room. His eyes are closed, and he seems close to hyperventilating, and any intention Arthur had for venting at him goes out the window.

"It's not your fault," he says instead.

"Please don't fight him," Merlin whispers.

"I've fought worse. I'll live." He pauses. "Though have the antidote close, just in case."

He could swear, as he leaves the room, that he hears Merlin mutter, "Oh, yeah, that inspires _loads_ of confidence," and he feels like laughing, just a little, possibly hysterically, but this is progress, isn't it? A little like friendship, almost.

He shoves the thought aside because of course this isn't friendship. Friendship is sparring and laughing at things other than the prince and - and -

Friendship is Morgana laughing at him and calling him an idiot and arguing and manipulating him into knots until he feels as dumb as a rock, but she still tosses him a sword, and that's friendship.

It's like love; it's supposed to hurt. It matters because you stick around anyway.

Although by that definition, he supposes he _is_ friends with Merlin.

Perhaps he needs to work on his definitions a bit.

. . . . .

It keeps going like that. Merlin keeps his mouth shut except when he winds himself up to deliver news or insight, and Arthur listens, because if he's gotten over his terror to say it, it must be important.

Merlin's not afraid of Gwen and Lancelot, and that hurts, but Arthur ignores it. They're not noble. Of course he's not afraid of them.

He just can't quite wrap his mind around why you'd drink poison for someone you feared. He doesn't understand a lot about Merlin, actually.

After Arthur brings back the cure, Merlin calls him "my lord" for the first time, and it feels like a victory. Something about the phrase seems right the way the others didn't, or at least closer to what it should be.

. . . . .

Merlin confesses to sorcery with something almost like relief, and Arthur tells himself it's because he thinks he's found a way to save Gwen. Arthur steps in for him, easily, but he wonders for a half moment.

He only wonders for a half moment though, because his father always drilled into him that if someone gives you reason to think they're a sorcerer, even for a moment, they have to die.

He always tries to follow his father's orders, so he only wonders for a half moment and then makes himself stop.

He doesn't analyze why.

Fire and tunnels and water - that's what comes to mind when he tries to define friendship again, and he adds confessions and covering for idiot manservants into the mix.

. . . . .

Edwin and Sophia bring their separate chaos. He worries for Morgana and she for him in turn, and it feels nice, even if he teases her. It's lighter, somehow, than it usually is between them.

Then there's Mordred.

He should turn him in. That's what his father would want.

But. But that path feels like the angry and muddled kind of wrong, just like it felt wrong to see the chains on Morgana's wrists and to know that she actually thought he would hurt her. That path has the pallor on Merlin's cheeks getting even worse, and has Gwen go from biting her lip to being back in a cell.

Apparently, Uther Pendragon has managed to raise not one, but two magic sympathizers, Arthur thinks in disgust, but he helps them and it feels -

Like fire and tunnels and confessions and covering for a friend.

Merlin smiles at him, actually beams, and Arthur can't help smiling back automatically, suddenly feeling ridiculously proud.

. . . . .

His uncle comes back from the dead to kill either him or his father, and he thinks _no. This is wrong._

It's revenge, pure and simple, except for the magic, and it should make perfect sense to a knight, but it doesn't. Not anymore.

. . . . .

Merlin introduces his mother to Arthur. He realizes how far Merlin has come when he sees the look in her eyes. Merlin's terror has faded to wariness, mixed with occasional smiles. Hers is fresh.

He also sees where Merlin gets him courage from, because she stands half in front of Merlin the whole time.

"Why didn't your father come?" he asks Merlin, as he prepares to go ask his father to grant Hunith an audience.

Merlin won't look at him. "Ealdor's a border town. Essetir and Camelot fight over it sometimes."

"Yes, so?"

"When I was younger, knights of Camelot showed up to look for sorcerers. We thought they were just raiding again. The men got together to fight them off." Merlin fiddles with the cloak he's supposed to be taking to be washed. "That's one of my earliest memories. Those red cloaks flying so heroically as they rode in and then - My father was a leader in the village. They thought he might know something about magic users. They - questioned him. For a long time." He rubs his finger over the red, red cloak. "They wouldn't let us bury him. They said he was in league with the sorcerers and his body had to be burned."

Arthur can't breathe.

He gasps in air, finally, and chokes out, "Why would she come here, then? Why would she let you?"

Merlin looks surprised. "Cenred's men are worse." He shrugs. "And she had to send me. There wasn't enough food to get us through the winter. It was send me to the city to earn something or sit there and starve."

"Why save me?" he manages. So many times already.

"Had to, at first," Merlin mutters under his breath, and then goes so pale Arthur immediately shoves it under the category of tree branches and confessions. "You're supposed to be better than that. Someday. It would be a shame if you never got there."

It has the hint of something like prophecy under it, so Arthur just nods, not sure he can afford to know more. Merlin nods back, eyes wet, and turns to go.

"Merlin."

"My lord?"

"I'm sorry."

It is the first time he has apologized to anyone but his father or Morgana in - Ever, possibly, and it's for something that's not his fault by any stretch of the imagination. It's not his fault the knights broke the code, its not his fault Cenred's men are worse, its not his fault a village not even in Camelot is on the verge of starving.

But Merlin blinks back shock and tears and gives a smile so blinding he thinks that perhaps he should try it more often.

" _Thank you."_ Merlin hesitates by the door. "Thank you. Arthur."

He ducks out before Arthur can react.

He should be angry, probably. It's a liberty, certainly.

One he's smiling at. Like an idiot.

It feels even better than tunnels and covering for a friend, so he keeps it, light and surprisingly non painful, glowing in his chest.

His father says he can't go.

Arthur smiles and says, "Yes, sire," and goes anyway.

It feels good.


	21. Threads

Guinevere's mother had died long before Gwen was old enough to learn how to sew. The teaching of that skill had fallen to a kind woman next door. She learned the basics quickly, huge stitches shrinking into barely visible ones.

She was no noble woman to sit around embroidering all day, but the woman taught her some simple patterns. Her favorites were the ones for good luck that the woman taught her how to sew in small hidden places that they couldn't be seen at all.

"If they're seen, they won't work," she warned.

A week later, she was accused of bewitching the miller's son and carted away.

Her father sat her down and explained to her that the woman had done something very bad, and Gwen wasn't going to see her anymore and she shouldn't talk about her either.

"She never did anything odd while you were there, did she?" he asked, worried.

Sewing patterns weren't odd. Gwen shook her head and slipped away to finish mending her father's torn shirt and to sneak the pattern into the place on the neck hidden by the collar. She did it with tiny stitches and white thread.

Her father never noticed, but he did comment on the increase in customers that had started coming his way.

. . . . .

Gwen did all the sewing, of course. Her father worked in the smithy, her brother learned from him, and she stretched small meals as far as they would go and mended their worn clothes time and time again.

She'd been mending Elyan's spare shirt when he had his fight with their father and left in the night. He took the shirt with him.

Gwen sighed, because wasn't that just like Elyan, to leave with a shirt half done when another night would have seen it finished?

. . . . .

It was a hard winter that saw her join the palace as a cleaning maid. Lady Morgana went through her personal maids at a prodigious rate, so Gwen was assigned to clean her room until a new one was found.

A ripped dress before a feast was saved by Gwen's quick hands and earned her the favor of Lady Morgana and a quick promotion to lady's maid.

Whenever Gwen took that dress to be washed, she always rubbed her finger over the good luck charm she'd sewn without thinking onto the hem.

. . . . .

Gwen sewed the charms automatically by now, but she knew better than to think that they actually worked. They were just superstition, that was all.

She couldn't help but run her fingers over the tear that had so neatly ripped through the charm, over and over again, when Prince Arthur took her to see her father's body.

It would need to be mended, she thought wildly, and then she pressed her hand to her mouth to cover her sobs.

. . . . .

The first thing she did when she got Elyan home was sit him down for a meal in the house that finally seemed to lose the shadows of loneliness.

The second thing she did was make him take his shirt off so that she could mend all the little tears.

She gave him two charms this time. Better to be sure.

. . . . .

Gwen had been afraid at first when she saw Morgana using magic, but it turned to anger quickly.

It was angry tears that rolled down her face as she neatly ripped out the stitches to each and every good luck charm on Morgana's dresses, one by one.

. . . . .

No one was quite sure what to do with her once Morgana was gone, Elyan was a knight, and Arthur started kissing her in public.

She started spending a lot of time sewing. Any woman could sew, commoner, noble, or royal. What they sewed differed admittedly, but it was a nice compromise.

Gwen sewed dresses for herself, did Arthur's mending for Merlin, and did Elyan's mending just like she always had.

Then she found Gwaine trying to fix a tear in his shirt, and he was hopeless, absolutely hopeless. She couldn't help but huff in exasperation and rip it from his hands.

From then on, he brought it to her with a hopeful smile and an offering of pilfered sweets from the kitchen.

Percival was the same, and he looked so sheepish she couldn't help but smile back and teach him. Leon had someone else do his normally, but she ended up with a tunic of his once somehow, and she caught herself adding the charm before she knew it.

She didn't do Lancelot's sewing. It would have felt different, somehow, than doing the others.

Merlin was capable of sewing surprisingly well - Gaius said something about the boy having more than enough practice the rate he ripped his clothes at - but he was busy enough running after Arthur that he'd taken her offer of mending Arthur's clothes gratefully. Sometimes when he found a minute, he would sit with her and help, talking a mile a minute and pausing in the work to wave his hands wildly until she had to set the needle down or stab herself from laughing.

She mended a neckerchief for him once. His fingers rubbed over it when he took it back, and he looked at her sharply.

She frowned at him. "Are you all right, Merlin?"

"Fine," he said, backing away. "Sorry, Gwen, got to go, dust bunnies need catching - "

He watched her more carefully for the next few weeks, and she felt something cold sneak into her as half remembered scenes from her childhood come back.

He finally asked her where she'd learned the pattern.

She bit her lip. "A neighbor taught me. It's a just a silly old superstition."

Merlin weighed that for a moment before relaxing for the first time in weeks. He stayed and helped, and it was just like it had been except -

"Funny how when you sew no one can see your eyes," he commented, apropos of nothing.

"Merlin?"

"Just be careful, all right, Gwen?"

She had no idea what he was talking about, but she worried her lip as he walked away and felt something anxious gnawing at her gut.

. . . . .

She didn't do Lancelot's sewing. He never asked, and it wouldn't have felt right.

"It's my fault," she whispered as they pushed the boat out onto the lake.

I didn't give him good luck.

It's a silly, superstitious thought, so she told Arthur a different truth when he looked at her.

"I made him promise."

Arthur holds her close. She runs her fingers over his back, taking comfort from a set of raised threads hidden in the cloth.

. . . . .

The first time she was to be married, the palace seamstress sewed the dress.

The second time, she did it herself and hid tiny marks in invisible stitching everywhere she could.

. . . . .

Queens sewed, but they didn't sew knights' undershirts, even if one of the knights was their brother. They didn't sew neckerchiefs for a manservant either, or even things for their own husband. They didn't sew anything useful at all as far as Guinevere could see, just endless flowers and birds on small scraps of cloth.

Guinevere took to not sewing much and turned her attention instead to the other things claiming her attention.

It worried her sometimes that the charms would be ripped and not repaired properly, but, she always reminded herself, they weren't actual charms. It was just a silly superstition.

When the Dolma pulled her out of Morgana's charm and everything that had happened hit her, she was silent most of the way home. It was too much to take in all at once.

It was a while before Arthur left her alone for long after that, but the first opportunity she had, she snuck Arthur's cloak into an empty room and stitched a good luck charm in red thread right in front of the glaring golden dragon.

. . . . .

Guinevere no longer cared what queens did or did not do, she was sewing. There was no room for good luck charms though.

Not when you were sewing skin back together.

Tiny, neat stitches were made with hands far too experienced with terror to shake. The voices around her babbled with pain, not with humor, and there were sobs instead of laughter, but it was the same action. In, out, in, out.

At some point she started shaking with sheer exhaustion as she toiled in the healing tent. The needle jabbed into her fingers, so she went and fetched more water and bandages until they were steady once more. Gaius's hands were too bent and arthritic to sew the men up, so it fell to her.

She could hardly sew a good luck charm into their skin, but it pulsed behind her lids every time she closed her eyes.

. . . . .

"Good luck isn't always enough," Merlin said. He was shaking.

She pressed a hand against her mouth.

There were rumors when she started mending her Chief Warlock's shirts, more when some of the servants remembered her old crush on him.

She ignored them all and asked her lady's maid to bring her something of Leon and Percival's.

The needle flashed why she sat on the throne and made her decisions, and if her lords looked at it askance, a look from Merlin kept them in line.

Merlin ran his fingers over the charms in his new shirt. "Still probably best not to tell them you're a witch, though."

She dropped her basket of mending.

"Er, Gwen? You did know you were a witch, right?"

"It's just a superstition!" she insisted, jabbing a finger at him.

Merlin's eyes flicked to the needle floating beside her, jabbing in time with her finger.

Gwen didn't speak to him for a week.

. . . . .

When they came back, clothes were a good deal less expensive and easier to come by, but the boys weren't any easier on them. Gwen bought herself a sewing kit and made Gwaine bring her chocolate.

"You know you don't have to," Arthur said, frowning. "We can just get new, or I could get you a machine - "

She broke him off with a kiss. "I like it," she told him, and that was good enough for him.

Those who hadn't been with them the first time were less understanding.

"Let them fix their own shirts," an agent said, disgusted. "Just because you're a woman doesn't mean you have to clean up after them. We've come a long way since the Dark Ages."

Gwen didn't doubt that they had, but the version of history they knew and Camelot didn't fit together as well as the historians would like.

"It's my way of fighting," she tried to explain.

"Learn to shoot a gun," the agent advised. "They'll take you seriously then."

Gwen already knew how to shoot, and Arthur had taken her seriously for her tendency to speak uncomfortable truths long before guns had been invented.

She could fight off monsters as well as anyone, but in the meantime, she sewed charm after charm into her family's clothes, so many the cloth would have to be completely shredded before something could break them all.

Merlin left her others, runes for protection in battle, stealth and fast healing, and she worked those in too, but she kept coming back to the sign for good luck. She kept it hidden, as she had been taught, and laughed at Merlin's stories as her needle flashed silver while her eyes shone gold.


	22. Both Wear Red

He tried to keep himself busy. It was for the best.

Wood carving was nice. He liked thinking he was making his father proud. So he carved wood, no magic, just skill, whenever there was nothing else to do. He couldn't carry the results around with him forever, so he traded them away or gave them to wide-eyed children.

They liked the dragons best, but they liked the knights, too.

Someone taught him how to make a doll with a few scraps of cloth and a corn husk. He taught himself how to make a better one by carving wood and using a scrap of one of Guinevere's old dresses. He wouldn't have, for anyone else, but the girl hadn't said a word in months since her village burned, and he didn't think Guinevere would mind.

Each and every one was by hand until he got to a village where the children were dying of hunger and plague, and the sickness he could fix, but he couldn't draw food from thin air.

He could, however, use a spell to replicate the dragons in his sack and give them out to the wide eyed children. He could tell them stories while he healed them and quietly urged the crops to grow faster.

He stopped wandering eventually. He tried to settle down.

When he'd filled three rooms with toys, he loaded the sacks up and headed out.

"You're wearing red," a little girl informed him.

"I like red." It had been Camelot's color, after all.

"You have a beard."

"It's a good beard." Parents were a bit less jumpy about a kindly grandfather handing out toys for free than they were otherwise.

The girl sucked her thumb thoughtfully. "Are you Santa Clause?"

Merlin hesitated.

"Do I get cookies if I say yes?"


	23. Close Your Eyes and Weep a Little

**A/N: Slightly AU.**

He goes to his library and tends to his books, and only Gaius and his apprentice ever come by. He is an old man. One ignored at feasts and mocked by children. He is left alone with his books and his memories of times when scholars filled the aisles and worked and when the shelves were not as empty as they are now.

Most of the scholars dabbled in magic. Most of them are dead now.

He does not approve of the sorcerers who attack. He does not approve of Gaius edging on treason.

But he misses his dead friends and he only raises an unseen eyebrow when that apprentice looks around and then whispers a spell to send a book down from a high shelf.

It is quiet and lonely in the forgotten shelves. It is even quieter in the hidden alcoves where he hid the books he was told to burn.

He is old and forgotten, like his books. He has no apprentice. No one to tend to the forgotten things when he is gone. No one to remember Malthus arguing the finer points of defensive runes or Balinor trying to convince Uther that the knowledge held in the books had more power than any army. No one to remember laughing apprentices and complaining students. No one to remember a blue-eyed girl who had kissed him and left dried flowers in books and gave him clues to find them.

He still comes across one, now and then. He always weeps when he does.

He forgets them, bit by bit. What color were Balthazar's eyes? What did Anya's apprentice's laugh sound like? Who won the argument on maternal blood magic?

He doesn't know, and his records don't say. He mutters names to himself as he tends to the books. His old, clouded eyes can't see the dust like they used to, and his hands shake and curl and won't glue bindings together properly. He smells mildew but can't find it.

They forget him and mock him until they remember that this doddering man is also the one to crown kings. Or queens, as the case may be. He had crowned Uther.

(He regretted that.)

He had crowned Ygraine.

(He regretted that too.)

He had crowned Morgana.

(His hands had shaken.)

He is asked to crown Arthur. He spends the night before shuffling through the aisles and listening to ghosts.

He finds a flower in a book on fire proofing spells.

He weeps until he's gasping for breath. He can hear the flames even now.

They find him in the morning. Gaius checks his pulse and shakes his head.

Arthur sees the book, but now is not the time. The man is dead. What does it matter, now?

Someone else will hold the crown. The library doors will be shut.

Merlin will take to sneaking in at nights, checking on a goblin, breathing in the dust. His fingers will trace the words in books that should have burned, and like the man before him, he will cry, very softly, as he listens to the ghosts.


	24. And Yes, I Still Taste Blood on My Teeth

Somehow, he had thought it would all come out at once. Secret would follow secret like a pulled thread unraveling a sock.

Merlin had thought a lot of things, once upon a time. He had thought, for instance, that there were a great many lines he would not, under any circumstances, cross.

There were a few, still. Not as many as he would have liked.

He knew, someday, Arthur would know everything. The idea that Arthur might catch him in a fight and find out was one of the more common scenarios to go through his head.

He had not thought that Arthur might find him fighting an enemy sorcerer when his magic was pretty much exhausted after fighting off way too many serpent-bear-lion- _things_ and that he would be down to a dagger and himself. He had not thought he would be found grappling in the dirt with an enemy assassin with his eyes fierce and savage and on fire with rage instead of magic. He had not thought he would be seen plunging the dagger down, again and again and _again._ He had not thought he would be seen wrestling as he did so, his teeth tearing at the other man's ear. He had not thought he would stand up and back away from the corpse and wipe the blood away from his mouth with a hand only shaking a little only to turn and see Arthur and realizing in the same moment that his shirt was still soaked with blood.

He hadn't thought a lot of things when he left Ealdor.

The blood on the front of his tunic had cooled and stiffened. He sat straight backed in the chair he had been led to and looked straight ahead.

"He was trying to kill you," he said. His voice sounded strange. Distant.

"I know," Arthur said quietly. "He was a sorcerer. I saw."

Merlin flinched but plowed on. "Then why am I in trouble?"

In trouble. Such an odd phrase. It sounded childish. Absurd.

Arthur looked at him for a long time. Merlin couldn't interpret the look for once. That troubled him.

"You're not. I just have a few questions, that's all."

Pull the thread, unravel the secrets . . . He shrugged. "All right."

"Where did you learn to fight like that."

"Just picked it up, I suppose." He grinned weakly.

Arthur looked away. Merlin flicked his tongue up. Ah. He still had blood on his teeth. That would rather negate the intended effect.

"Why didn't you tell someone? Get help?" he demanded. He was angry. He was always happiest when he could find some way to be angry instead of whatever other emotion wanted to bubble up.

Merlin considered it. Help might have been possible this time. Swords could have taken care of the monsters at least. "Just got used to doing it on my own, I suppose."

"How many times has this _happened_?"

Merlin bounced a little in his seat, rubbing his neck. "Dunno. Lost count."

Arthur just looked at him, something horrified and lost in his eyes.

"Can I go now?" Merlin finally said. "This shirt's getting a little uncomfortable."

"Of course," Arthur said automatically.

Merlin hesitated. He didn't want to leave Arthur looking like that. A joke would work, but he was too tired. None were coming to mind. He glanced at the window and judged the position of the sun. "I'll have your supper ready in an hour or so, if that's all right."

Arthur shook himself. "Don't worry about it. Take the night off."

"It's fine," Merlin reassured him. "I didn't get hurt or anything. This is nothing, I've had plenty worse."

He realized too late that he should have gone along with it, should have rejoiced in the time off. It was off and Arthur had noticed.

At least, that was the only reason he could think of for why Arthur's expression only grew more worried and lost.


	25. Festivals and Friends

**A/N: This is the first of a series of unbeta'd fluff pieces I wrote my sister for Christmas. This is the only one in the Merlin fandom, I'm afraid, but the others will be showing up soon in their respective fandoms, so keep an eye out for them.**

Merlin hated this time of year.

The food was good, true, and he didn't mind serving it if he could steal the scraps afterwards. It was busy, but he secretly thrived on busy, and it gave him an excuse to use magic.

It was what it stood for that bothered him.

Uther claimed it as the day he had defeated magic.

Unsurprisingly, Merlin had to foil a lot of attacks on that day.

Unsurprisingly, Uther held a lot executions.

Merlin wasn't alone in his hatred. Morgana grew furious, Gwen got quiet, Gaius was tense and drawn, and even Arthur grew reluctant.

Arthur, for his part, assumed he knew why his manservant hated the festival. He did his best to get him out of executions by burying him in chores and tried not to rag on him so much.

A battle prevented the celebration the year Arthur became regent. After that, Arthur simply . . . forgot.

 _Shut up, Gwaine._

The midwinter's present to Merlin was entirely his wife's idea, of course.

It was. Really.

 _Come here, Gwaine. I've got a present for you. You're going to love it._


	26. The Guard's Code of Conduct

The Guard's Code used to be to the common people what the Knight's Code was to the nobility. The full thing was written up somewhere in fancy script and courtly language that the guards had laughed over, but the essence of it, the heart - Every boy could recite that to you. Every guard made it as much a part of themselves as their own bones.

Used to be.

* * *

 _For every guard shall be these things: Loyal to the king,_

In King Constans day, the king had been a distant figure. That had made it easier in some ways. It was easier to be loyal to an ideal than to a man.

His son, Uther, though, he had been a prince to inspire passion and sacrificial loyalty. It was a point of pride to the guard that when King Constans died and the prince's uncle challenged him for the throne and civil war broke out that every last guard remained faithful.

It was easy those first few years. Easy when Stephen's spell caught the knife before it could hit the king and he was thanked warmly and with a bag of gold. Easy when the king himself spoke over the three they'd lost when Lot had sent assassins. Easy when they stood watchful outside Ygraine's door and she greeted them with a smile that could melt stone.

But that was Before.

And no true guard ever had to ask, "Before what?"

* * *

 _Vigilant in all his magic, mind, and might,_

That was how it had read. Originally.

Then Arthur was born.

It wasn't often that the king interfered with the details of how Captain Donovan's men were posted, but Captain Donovan was just relieved that the man had finally emerged from his office. If the king wanted to specify which men were to be on duty that night, he wasn't going to complain.

Samuel was a new father and the schedule shift meant he was pulling a double shift outside the vault door. It was taking all his stubborn willpower just to keep his eyes open. He was in no condition to notice that his fellow guard was one of the new men King Uther had hired recently and not a magic user as regulations demanded.

Vick met Marcus in the jail. He raised an eyebrow at his friend. "Since when do you have magic?"

"Funny. I was about to ask the same of you."

"What are we supposed to do if a sorcerer breaks in?" Vick demanded.

Marcus raised an eyebrow. "The cells are empty, mate. Why would anyone break in?"

"Maybe they'll be heading for the vault and get lost. Then what?"

Marcus grinned. "Pretend we don't see them?"

Vick snorted. "Says the man who cracked a chair over a wraith's head to hold it off until a dragonlord could show up."

Marcus clapped him on the back. "See? We'll be fine. We can tell Captain Donovan when we go off duty. It's probably just a rotation error."

Frederick, though. The men joked that he had seer blood in him. When Frederick got to his post and saw that it wasn't a mage standing there, he turned and took off running for the barracks.

The barracks had been made of stone until the earthquake that had struck on the day of Arthur's birth. In the month since, they had thrown up a wooden one with the help of sorcery until they could get the necessary stone.

That night, though, Frederick couldn't see the wood for the flames. He ran for water and started to shout at the new guards he saw standing outside to start a bucket chain.

One shook his head and stepped in front of him. "We're just to stop it from spreading. Order of the king."

"They're still alive in there!" Frederick yelled. "We can still save them!"

"Order of the king," he said stubbornly. Frederick shoved past him. He only got a few steps before something hit him in the back.

The remaining guards were gathered in the morning. They were told the barracks had burned with seventy guards, including Captain Donovan, inside. They were told that only sorcery could have ensured that not one of the men woke up and escaped. Only sorcery could have made it burn so quickly. They would have the crown's full support in tracking down and punishing the perpetrator.

Merrick looked through the ashes before they were quite cool and reflected on the odd fact that every last magic user in the guard had been inside. His hands hovered reverently over the bones, and he reflected on how odd it was that sleeping men had congregated near the windows and doors. He volunteered to carry Frederick's body to the pyre and reflected on the fact that of all the ways a magic user could use to kill a man, they had chosen a knife in the back.

He reflected on the fact that oil was a quite effective accelerant and that it didn't take magic to block a door.

Later, he reflected on the fact that Andrews had been inside and that Frederick had never been the sort of man who was able to ignore his brother when he needed help, even for an order of the king.

But by that time the fear and the paranoia were so strong that even in his own head, he only dared think it very, very quietly.

* * *

 _Ready and willing to defend his own,_

Of all the lines in the code, that one should have been the easiest to understand. It meant that when Lot's men invaded, if a fellow guard was on the ground, you stepped in to defend him, even if you only had a broken stick of wood. It meant you kept your mouth shut when Captain Donovan asked who, exactly, had put the dead spider from the Caves of Balor on his pillow. It meant that when young William died, they all stepped in to provide for his children.

But Captain Donovan was dead now, and that was Before.

What was defending their own? Was it hunting down sorcerers in the name of finding the one who had killed their brothers?

Even if one of them was dead Andrews' wife?

Was it quietly telling a dead man's parents to spread the word that those like them might want to leave the city until things calmed down?

Even if the mother suspected what had happened and swore someday she'd kill the king?

John didn't know. He suspected most of the others didn't either.

* * *

 _Eager to protect the innocent and see the guilty to justice,_

Guilty, Hawthorne mouthed, guilty.

He wasn't the smartest man in the guard, he knew that. He'd thought he'd known what guilty and innocent meant, though.

Coren tried to explain it to him. "See, magic's got too uncontrolled. The king has to regulate it or there'll be chaos."

"Well, there've always been some problems," Hawthorne allowed. You couldn't be in the guard for any length of time and not know that.

"So if someone breaks the regulations, they're breaking the law, and that's wrong."

"That's true," Hawthorne admitted.

"And that couple had broken the law, so they were guilty, and Halig brought them in, so he's a good law abiding citizen."

Hawthorne frowned. "He hit the woman."

"Yes, but she was guilty, so that's alright."

"You don't hit prisoners," Hawthorne insisted. "Captain Donovan was always very clear on that."

Coren shifted uncomfortably. "Captain Thomas understands that in these difficult times, extraordinary measures are sometimes necessary."

"Well, what about Aredian then?" Hawthorne said. "You can't tell me his methods are alright."

"Sometimes they're necessary. Remember, it's alright if they're guilty. It's part of their punishment. Justice."

"Yes, but I thought his methods were so that they would answer his questions."

"Well, yes . . . "

"So how does he know if they're guilty or not?"

"They confess."

"But only after he's already done it. What if they don't confess?"

Coren was looking more and more uncomfortable. Hawthorne pushed on. "They haven't even had a trial yet."

"The king says it's all right," Coren said.

Hawthorne frowned. "I thought what he said was that if Sir Ector didn't stop challenging him he'd have him convicted of sympathizing with lawbreakers."

"Same thing."

"And Lord Balinor told me that the only thing the boy had done was use healing magic - "

Coren was glad to be back on safer ground. "But he's untrained, see? So it's dangerous. Healing magic's dangerous anyway."

Hawthorne's frown deepened. "How's healing magic dangerous?"

"Got us here, didn't it?"

Both men jumped and turned to see that Marcus had walked up behind them.

"Don't talk like that," Coren hissed.

Marcus raised an eyebrow. "It's what the Dragonlords told the High Priestesses when the delegation came yesterday." He sighed. "At least they won't let the king go too far."

"The Dragonlords are out of favor," Coren said darkly. "And we all know what that means."

They all looked towards the gate that recently disfavored nobles had been leaving - or fleeing - through.

Hawthorne wasn't the kind of man to think much of it, but Marcus would later think it was bitterly ironic that just as they turned to look, a kitchen fire raged out of control and the street filled with smoke.

* * *

 _Resolute even in unpleasant duties,_

That, Will thought, pretty much summed up the past few years.

Although unpleasant was a rather mild word for it, really.

"Unpleasant" didn't really cover bringing in people you knew that had been accused of breaking the laws on magic and watching them die. "Unpleasant" didn't really cover leading prisoners down to Aredian in magic controlling chains that burned their skin.

"Unpleasant" didn't really cover digging a large, shallow grave for the bones of the burned outside of Camelot's walls, but someone had to do it, and at least by volunteering he could be sure that the person doing it was respectful and offered up a prayer.

He could leave. Should leave, maybe. A lot of the best men had left early on.

But he had a family to feed and leaving now might be noticed. Might make King Uther think he was expressing dissent.

Might put a target on all of their chests.

Digging a grave for the bones was unpleasant. It was better than Vick's job, though. He was digging a deeper one for those who had suffered from other executions. It was a punishment detail for mouthing off to the captain.

The worst part for Vick wasn't the back breaking work or the rotting corpses in general, Will figured.

He wasn't sure whether the worst part was the corpses with blue lips that were so much smaller than all the others or that one of the larger corpses was Marcus. Vick and Marcus had been friends as close as brothers.

Will didn't blame Marcus for picking up an enchanted sword to fight the beast the High Priestesses had sent. He would have done the same.

Those new guards didn't see it that way, though. They were here for the money, or because they hated magic, or because they got some sort of sick enjoyment out of all this.

There were other new ones too, he supposed. Idealistic boys taking advantage of the constant need for new men to join up.

No one stayed idealistic for long in this job.

Not many good men left now. Just the desperate, the cowardly - he stabbed the dirt with his shovel at that one - the greedy, the stupid, and a few last men of honor trying desperately to do some good.

A roar split the sky. He glanced up, hand already going for his sword.

"Vick! Take cover!"

A dragon, one of the few not killed when the flocks they were allowed to feed on started being seeded with poisoned offerings, was diving towards the city, flames spewing from its mouth.

Also on Will's list of "unpleasant" things: fighting things that killed in horrible ways and that were about as afraid of him as he was of an ant.

* * *

 _Resolute both in ordinary duty and danger,_

The original line had been jokingly changed to "both in boredom and danger" by the guards. Ceydon had heard the joke first from Evan when he joined up. It was appropriate enough. A guard's life was a lot of standing around spiced with occasional instances of intense excitement.

Or it had been. Then for a while, it had been a pretty near constant mix of desperation mixed in with near constant magical attacks that had cut through their numbers like a scythe through grain.

Now . . . Now, honestly, there had been so much fear, grief, and rage for so long that he just couldn't keep it going any longer. He thought he might have reached the limit of excitement his body could feel for one lifetime. He caught himself going through the motions of his life and not feeling anything other than numb.

Callous, he supposed some would say, but he wasn't cracking jokes like some guards were. He wasn't indulging in the black humor that kept some of the men sane. He didn't see the prisoners as animals or monsters, he just - These days, he had a hard time feeling anything.

Even when he was being attacked.

There was a witch coming towards his position by a door. He wasn't sure what he was guarding. He'd heard the bell ringing an hour ago, looked around and realized he was apparently on duty and had been for a while. The captain had nodded at him as he'd walked by, so he supposed this was where he was supposed to be. He just didn't remember getting here.

Whatever it was he was guarding, apparently the witch wanted to get to it. Or maybe she was being chased and just wanted to get away. All he knew was that her eyes were gold, she was charging him, and he should probably draw his sword.

He just . . . Couldn't be bothered. It didn't seem important.

She shouted something. There were lights and noise - He didn't quite catch what was going on, but he supposed it could be considered distracting. He still noticed the witch as she shoved past him, but he could see how someone might not. It was a good effort on her part.

He didn't stop her. He probably should have. For all he knew, this was the king's door.

But she hadn't killed him. That was nice of her.

He went back to staring at the wall.

* * *

 _Determined to put forth their best effort in every area,_

"Obfuscating incompetence," Jaron explained to the new recruit as he settled in on a crate in the tunnel to the dragon's cave and pulled out a pair of dice. "If you have a reputation for not being able to do something, they won't think you let the person go on purpose."

"What do the other men do?" Aaron asked, wide eyed.

"These days? Whatever helps them sleep at night."

"Won't that get you fired?"

"In this guard? Not likely."

* * *

 _And committed to at all times serving Camelot to the best of their ability._

Gaheris always knew that was the most important part of the code. Whatever else failed, whatever else had to be abandoned, that line had to be upheld. When the king was mad, your brothers in arms were traitors, and guilt and innocence were lost in a haze, when all else failed, serve Camelot.

You couldn't do that by believing what you were told. You had to keep your eyes and ears open. You had to be observant, and even more importantly, you had to know what to do with what you knew. He'd earned several commendations for it.

He was good. He knew he was good. So when an old man who looked suspiciously like a fugitive from a few years back that he and Luke had most certainly not let into the dungeons walked out and claimed otherwise, he shot a look at Luke that meant, You have got to be kidding me.

He knew those eyes, though. Of course he did, so he stood aside and let Merlin pass.

"He needs to be better at this," Lukas grumbled. "He's making us look bad."

"No one's as good as they used to be," Gaheris pointed out. "The sorcerers can't train their apprentices properly, we can't fight them like we used to, we don't have magic, the other kingdoms don't either, it evens out."

"We don't have _much_ magic," Lukas corrected.

"Well, yes," Gaheris admitted, grinning. "But the rest is true. Even if we weren't here to see it for ourselves twenty years ago, that we've all declined since then just makes sense. We lost a lot in the Purge."

"You've been listening to Merrick again."

"Kinda have to, mate, seeing as I'm courting his daughter and all."

When the warning bell rang, Gaheris hit his head against the wall. "You were right. He needs to get better at this."

Lukas had mellowed after eating the dinner the Irene brought them and had switched sides. "You go sneaking through the castle then, if it's so easy."

"I'm good, thanks. I like my head right where it is."

Merlin was considerate enough to be back in his cell by the time they checked in the morning. Technically they should have gone off duty by now, but they'd hung around after their relief came just to see how it would all resolve itself.

King Arthur, now miraculously recovered, gave the order for Merlin to be released.

"Does this happen a lot?" one of the guards that had relieved them asked.

Gaheris shot him an amused look. "You're new, aren't you?"

Merlin gave a little wave and darted up the stairs. Not quite as exuberant as he would have been a few years ago, but still cheerful in his relief over the king's recovery.

Gaheris saluted his retreating back. Merlin might not be an official part of the guard, but he was one of theirs all the same.

By magic, mind, or might, they served Camelot.


	27. Who Chops the Wood?

Who chops the wood?

The first time Merlin sees a man burning on a pyre - not a hanging, not a beheading, a burning, and somehow that seems so much worse - that's all he can think. Who chops the wood for the fire?

Are there servants whose job that is? Are there people in town who go into the forest for wood then sell it to the castle? Is there something special about those particular branches? Do they know from the beginning what purpose the wood will be used for, or is it just put in the general pile?

He asks Gaius over dinner in between complaining about the soup and ranting about Arthur. He blurts it out - "Who chops the wood?" - and Gaius looks at him like he's mad for a moment before muttering about that mental affliction the king is convinced Merlin has.

Merlin wonders if magic counts as a mental affliction or a physical one.

He could have pursued the topic, but he doesn't really want to know, so he talks about falling branches instead and how oblivious Arthur is.

Do they chop the trees down, or does someone go to the forest to look for fallen wood? Has someone picked up a branch he's broken to kill a bandit and decided that it would be perfect to burn a sorcerer on?

He finds he can't stop thinking about it. Every spare moment finds him turning the question over and over in his mind. Who chops the wood?

And the gallows. Who built those? The city carpenter? A specialist? What were they thinking as they did it? How did it feel?

Who made the executioner's axe? Tom? Was it just another job? Was he proud of it? Did he hate watching it do its job? Or was it an older piece? A family heirloom passed down for generations of executions?

Who chops the wood?

Someone has to do it. Do they know? Do they care? Are they ignorant? Are they bitter? Are they malicious?

Are they sorcerers like him, doing what they have to in order to survive?

Who chops the wood?


	28. Scars? What Scars?

Arthur honestly didn't understand what all the fuss was about.

Gwen, on the other hand, looked well on her way to furious. "He's covered in scars, Arthur! You don't think that's something to be worried about?"

"All of the knights are covered in scars," he pointed out.

"He's not a knight!"

"I'm right here, you know," Merlin grumbled. "Can I put my shirt back on now?"

"Gaius still needs to dress the wound," Gwen reminded him before turning back to Arthur. "Do you even know how he got most of them?"

Arthur frowned. "I can't even remember where I got most of _my_ scars, much less where that clumsy idiot got his."

Gwen gave him her disappointed look. Arthur winced. He looked around for a distraction. "Where _is_ Gaius, anyway?"

Gwen didn't look like she'd bought it, but Merlin let out a conveniently timed whimper. Gwen immediately turned sympathetic. "I'll go find him. I'll be right back, Merlin." She gave his arm a reassuring squeeze and hurried out.

"That went well," Merlin said brightly.

Arthur glared at him and glanced over the scars that crisscrossed his chest and back. The glare deepened. "That one's new."

"Which one?" Merlin tried to peer over his shoulder onto his back.

"There's more than one?" Arthur asked in a deceptively calm voice.

"Er, no, of course not! I just - er, what was the question?"

" _Mer_ lin."

Merlin drooped a little. "That one wasn't my fault."

"That wasn't the question," Arthur said in exasperation. "You know, this would be a lot easier if you just told her the truth."

"You're right," Merlin said cheerfully. "She should be back in a couple of minutes. Then all I'll have to say is, 'So, Gwen, I've been assassinating Arthur's enemies for years and sometimes they fight back which is how I got all these scars.' Of course, then she'll start yelling at you again - "

"You make it sound like I've been asking you to," Arthur sputtered. "I've been trying to get you to stop for two years now!"

" _You_ know that, and _I_ know that, but _Gwen_ doesn't. And I don't think she'd believe you if you told her." Merlin was still grinning brightly at him.

"Has anyone ever told you that you look like the village idiot when you do that?"

"No, but they have told me that it can look frightening if I'm also holding a knife at the time. Has anyone reminded you that you have lunch with your father in five minutes?"

Arthur most certainly did _not_ jump up, but he did move quickly toward the door. "This isn't over," he warned Merlin.

"What isn't, sire?"

Arthur growled and slammed the door on his way out.

Merlin peered out the door to make sure he was gone before settling back onto his bed and muttering a quick spell to stop the worst of the bleeding until Gaius could get there. It wouldn't do for Arthur to see.

He still had a few secrets, after all.

* * *

 **A/N: Alternate title: How many times can I subvert expectations in a fic this short?**


	29. Speak

It's been a week since Arthur died.

Merlin hasn't said a word since Kilgharrah flew away.

 _He used to sing before he came to Camelot. His mother always told him it was beautiful. He stopped as soon as he arrived in the city, though. For one thing, he was afraid Arthur would make fun._

 _For another, if he let his mind drift while he sang, the words had a tendency to stop being harmless and drift into magic._

 _He could sing now. Magic is legal and there is no Arthur to make fun._

 _He keeps his mouth shut and tries not to cry._

It's been a month since Arthur died.

Everyone's trying to get him to talk. The knights, the few of them that are left, try to tease or trick or scare him into it. Gwen begs him. Gaius tries to fix a problem that was never medically induced in the first place.

Merlin thinks it's good for them to have a project.

 _He used to talk constantly. He babbled excuses, rambled out stories, asked questions unexpectedly._

 _He doesn't need excuses now, and no one knows the answer to the only question that matters._

It's been a year since Arthur died.

People accept him now as a silent sorcerer lurking in the background. He never corrects the name.

 _He used to shout spells all the time. Now the magic comes to Emrys easily, without a word, just like it always should have. It is easy, now that it no longer matters._

 _He's not sure who he blames for this, Destiny or Magic or himself, but whoever it is, he hates them fiercely._

 _He uses his magic. But he never says a word._

It's been ten years since Arthur died.

Gaius is dying.

They all tell him to say something. That it will comfort the dying man.

None of them seem to realize that Merlin has been half dead for ten years now and is too weak to say a word.

He is, after all, only half of a whole.

 _He finds Khilgharrah the hard way and sits with him as he dies. The dragon breathes out something that sounds like a prophecy as he dies. Merlin records it meticulously and heads back to Camelot._

 _He hasn't breathed a single word of the Dragon Tongue._

It's been a hundred years since Arthur died.

No one cares now whether he speaks or not.

 _Merlin keeps up a running commentary in his head of what Arthur would say to this or that. Sometimes Arthur asks for his opinion._

 _Merlin's never sure what to say to him anymore._

It's been a thousand years since Arthur died.

Then that clock stops, and suddenly it's been one minute since he came back.

Arthur pulls back from hugging him with that laughing grin still on his face. He asks questions. So many questions.

Merlin is smiling too. When Arthur pauses for breath, Merlin opens his mouth to answer them.

It's been a thousand years since he said a word. All his protesting vocal cords can manage is a croak that scrapes his throat raw.

* * *

 **A/N: I'm tempted to write a follow up chapter of Arthur helping Merlin get his voice back. There aren't enough "Arthur returns and takes care of Merlin" fics.**

 **Although if you know of a good one, feel free to recommend it in a comment.**

 **Currently I've got something like six requests for fics and two ideas of my own bouncing around, but none of them are clicking at the moment, and I've learned the hard way not to try and force it. Prompts would be welcome, but I can't guarantee anything.**


	30. Run

When he is ten years old, he loses a footrace to Will. Will teases him all the way home.

That night he dreams of being chased and wakes up panting.

He runs every day after that even after the nightmares go away. He runs even after he wins every last race.

Even when he wins, his face is as pale as if all the knights of Camelot had been behind him.

. . . .

When he is being Arthur's servant, he runs. He runs to avoid goblets after cheeky comments, he runs to get his work done in time, and he runs to get to a hiding place when they fight bandits.

When he is being Gaius's assistant, he runs. He runs to gather herbs, he runs to deliver goods to patients, and he runs to get out of earshot before Gaius can tell him to clean the leech tank.

When he is being Emrys, he runs. He runs to fight monsters, he runs to save Mordred against his instincts, and he runs to avoid the guards.

He runs.

. . . .

When Will dies, when Freya dies, when Balinor dies, he runs. He runs through the woods when he can, through the castle when he has to. He runs until his breathing is ragged from running instead of sobs. He runs until his muscles burn instead of his heart. He runs until the whole world is a comforting blur and he finds himself at the edge of the battlements.

Then he turns around and runs back.

. . . . .

When Arthur makes the knights run in training, Gwaine teases Merlin until he decides to run too.

When they finally catch up to him at the agreed upon finished line, his face is white, and his eyes are red.

Arthur does him the courtesy of pretending he doesn't know Merlin has been crying.

"Since when can you run like that?" he demands instead.

"I can do lots of things," Merlin says. What he doesn't add is:

"Like steal."

"Like forge documents."

"Like kill."

"Like lie."

"Like magic."

Instead he says, "Beat you back," and takes off before the knights have even caught their breath.

He doesn't say what a comfort it is to know he's faster than Camelot's best.

 **A/N: Today's unbeta'd drabble is brought to you by a very contrite fanfiction writer. As I said in my last post, inspiration is coming slower these days, and I've been focusing on my original writing and some not-so-fun-but-I-have-to-do-it-anyway writing. Between that and an extremely troublesome chapter for "King" (yes, an update's coming), this has taken the back burner.**

 **Also, I've been marathoning NCIS. Which is not as good an excuse, but in my defense I've been stressed, and Tony makes me laugh.**  
 **I still owe you the comfort to last chapter's hurt, I want to write a sequel to Relius's chapter, and I've an idea for an Avengers crossover and maybe an NCIS one. That's it.**

 **Prompts, people. Please.**

 **Happy Tuesday!**


	31. Death Wish

"Do you have a death wish?"

Merlin lost count of the times that he'd heard that phrase. From Gaius, mainly, said in exasperation after yet another stunt or slightly too obvious piece of magic. From his mother, although not in those exact words, when he was younger.

From Arthur, after the little incident with the poisoned chalice, the banquet, and the two kings that didn't like him very much.

So he hadn't thought it all the way through. You make _one_ little mistake and almost die, and you never hear the end of it. And Arthur said _he_ was a girl. Honestly . . . !

From Gwen, when her eyes had asked it after Arthur had -

Well. After Arthur.

And now, two hundred years later, Niniane, sweet, beautiful Niniane, who had made him laugh for the first time in decades had him pinned to the ground with a dagger at his throat and a spell locking him in place, and was asking him, with mocking laughter, if he was ready to die.

"You almost want to, don't you?" She toyed with the dagger, letting it creep across his throat just hard enough to draw a bead of blood. "All that pain in those pretty eyes. You finally realized he isn't coming back, didn't you? And you've been oh, so tempted to escape this stupid little country and go somewhere where you'll never have to deal with anyone else's problems ever again."

A lot of people had asked him that question. He'd never really understood it.

 _Camelot needs me,_ he whispered into her mind since he couldn't say the words.

They never seemed to get that. He wasn't sure why.

He also wasn't sure why Niniane had betrayed him, or how a woman who had known him for five years could forget he didn't _need_ to move to dispose of an attacker, but maybe he was just getting out of touch with the younger generation. Will probably would have said that he'd never been _in_ touch, seeing as he'd never been exactly normal, but that was beside the point.

When he could move again, he crawled over to her body and closed her eyes. It didn't make her look like she was asleep. It was hard to look peaceful with a tree root erupting through your chest.

He didn't know why everyone thought he was so eager to die. Dying was _painful._

And surprisingly impermanent in his case, but that was beside the point.

Some people seemed to take it for granted that he would be ready to pass on. Immortality must wear on you, they'd say . . . and they were right of course, only . . .

Only Camelot was beautiful in the mornings, truly beautiful, and no matter how many people betrayed him, he could never quite stop smiling at a pretty new girl in the bakery or resist the urge to talk to all the fascinating new people that made their way into the city. Only there was a bakery that made truly excellent cakes, and he liked the way the children's eyes lit up when he made the frosted figures come to life and dance. He loved the magic in general, actually, even after all this time, and he still didn't know why Arthur hadn't liked acrobats, because honestly, they just kept getting more and more fantastic.

True, things got bad sometimes.

 _Nightmares nine nights out of ten and insomnia the tenth night, but that was alright, he'd just go walk, or read - it was amazing how cheap books were now, really._

But there were some advantages of immortality. He liked being able to surround himself with books. He liked reading them out loud as he walked, doing the voices, and making up tunes to any songs that were included.

 _All his friends were dead at the moment, and he was still smarting enough from a recent betrayal to be hesitant to make new ones quite yet, so he had no one to go with, but he headed out to the newfangled movie theater anyway. He loved it, every bit of it, and he started going every night he could after that. When the war came and he marched off, it was the movies he missed, the hushed crowd of people and the sweet salty snacks and the late night stories that faded into dreams in his exhausted mind. Then there were colors and explosions and a rush of noise that swept him away in a butter induced coma, and he loved every moment of it. He bought huge piles of food and plopped down at every midnight showing he could find. He didn't care what the film was, he just liked sharing the food with the costumed people and making friends that would last for at least two hours and the previews._

He missed things, yes, but there was so much to see and do.

 _It had been years since Kilgharrah had taken him one last flight before succumbing to his age, but this airplane was incredible. It jolted and shook like it was about to fall apart, and "a wing and a prayer" really wasn't much of an exaggeration. It was dangerous and perfect, and he swooped through the sky and whooped like he hadn't in years. He'd followed the stories of attempted flight in fascination, and now this one was all his._

It was lonely, yes, and hard, but what no one seemed to get was that he was still needed.

 _A war, a plague, a bad king, a famine, children crawling around in machines that could all too easily crush their fragile bones -_

And of course, Arthur was coming. He'd need to be ready for him. He had a room ready for him that he kept perfectly dusted, complete with a closet with clothes he washed every Friday, to keep them fresh.

And whenever he could afford it, he always bought two tickets to whatever showing he was going to.

Just in case.


	32. Just a Little

She thought she might love him, just a little.

Oh, Princess Elena wasn't heartbroken, by any stretch. She didn't regret that she wouldn't be marrying Arthur. But it had all been a bit like a fairy tale, arriving in Camelot ripped to pieces inside between what she was trying to be and what kept pulling her away from it, and she had left whole and content for the first time in her life.

She should be grieving her nurse or nursing hurt feelings, but she just felt _good_ for the first time ever. Her whole life seemed like a grey dream, and Arthur had woken her up.

She respected him, definitely, but just being near him seemed to have fixed her, so she let herself love him, just a little.

. . .

She thought she might hate him, just a little.

It wasn't fair of her, she knew. It wasn't as if Arthur had _meant_ to die and leave them with this mess, it was just that he had, and now her fairy tale was a nightmare.

She had ridden horses when she was a child. She had been good at that if nothing else. It had been effortless in a life of exquisite awkwardness.

It was slightly less effortless while riding out with knights and dodging arrows under a smoke strewn sky.

Guinevere was a good queen, no doubt about that, but the Saxons and the petty kings refused to believe a woman could be capable. They nibbled at Camelot's borders, ever and always testing for weakness, and small kingdoms like Elena's were caught in the middle.

Marauding Saxons. Bandits. Lot and his men.

She was glad she was awake now and fully in command of herself. There was no room in this world for a dreaming, awkward, child. No room for fairy tales. Just broken, jagged pieces, forged into weapons that were sent out to kill or die.

The earth shuddered beneath her and her horse reared. A chasm opened in front of her, swallowing whole the men Lot had sent raiding.

The earth closed like a monstrous mouth. She turned to see Emrys high on the hill. She saluted him. He gave a shallow bow back.

He brought order wherever he went, but he couldn't be everywhere, not even with all his power. She wondered what had lured him from his queen's side today.

He appeared beside her before she could question it. He offered her his hand to help her dismount and kissed it when she did. It was a courtly gesture that felt odd on her rough, stained skin.

"Emrys."

"Your Highness. Gwen - Queen Guinevere sent me with a message."

She smiled as he stumbled over the name. It was good to see a hint of Merlin underneath the armor of Emrys. It gave her hope for herself.

He charmed her thoroughly as he gave his message, and before she knew it, she was agreeing to the madcap scheme that he claimed was all her fellow monarch's, but she suspected had its root with him.

He smiled when he left, but it didn't hide the pain that had never once left his eyes.

It wasn't Arthur's fault, not at all, but she thought she might hate him, just a little.


	33. The Servant's Code of Conduct

_They didn't have a fancy code like the knights and the nobles did. They didn't even have an old forgotten one like the guards._

 _But there were rules, nonetheless._

* * *

When cook caught knights stealing her pastries, she chased them out of the kitchen. When she caught the new scullery maid who was all bones doing the same, she went selectively blind.

(When she caught Merlin at it, she compromised. She swatted him on the head with her ladle, but she made sure he'd already stolen at least two rolls first. Technically, the boy could afford to eat, but Mary'd tasted Gaius's cooking before. Merlin needed all the help he could get.)

When the gardener caught the stable boy and a kitchen girl kissing behind one of his trees, he gave a long whistle that made them blush and run off. When he caught one of the nobles trying to steal a kiss from that same kitchen girl, he walked over to the tree like he didn't even see them, peered at the bark, and then asked the noble if that looked like toxic tree mold to him or if his eyes were just going.

(He'd used that one on the prince once. He let himself fall into full enthusiastic swing with a tall tale about what that poor under gardener's lungs had looked like when Gaius had opened him up and how if only the lad hadn't inhaled the spores . . . Gwen finally got his attention and told him that it was all right, _really_ , and could he please stop, Arthur was looking a bit green. That she'd called the crown prince 'Arthur' was a pretty good hint that it really was all right, so he gave her a wink that said he'd be just over a ways if she changed her mind before he ambled off.)

When one of their own was accused thieving, they said they always knew that one was a bad apple, but they slipped them a few things until they found a new job. When one of their own was accused of witchcraft, they didn't visit them or speak of them, but they scratched another name into the wall of the old storage room no one used anymore, and they pretended they didn't know why the steward "misplaced" a few dozen flowers in there every week.

(When Merlin got arrested for _anything,_ they took bets on how long it would take for him to get out of it, and they ignored the nagging fear that this would be the time he wouldn't.)

When Jared had cuts on his face at the same time that one of the lords had blood on his ring, when a drunken noblewoman threw a goblet at Lizbet's head and it hit her at just the wrong place, when a knight's "bit of fun" meant that Martin was short two teeth and couldn't talk right ever after . . .

When lashes were given but certainly weren't earned, when thrown objects meant worse things than concussions, when "accidental death" really meant that an accident of birth made one person's life worth less than another's, when the brothers of pretty servant girls started wondering if there was a way to make a stabbing look accidental . . .

Word got around.

Whoever said that the law didn't care about servants was right.

Whoever said that this fact made them powerless was wrong.

For the little things, there were burnt meals and cold fires, sand in sheets and holes in clothes.

(Stranger things, too. Beds too hard, clothes too small, floors too slick where there was nothing wet on them.)

For the larger things, there were meals guaranteed to send the eater running for Gaius, holes in rather embarrassing places, and whispers to people who knew people that led to certain knights emerging from practice sessions with more bruises than unblemished skin.

(Really odd things, too. Nightmares or insomnia, boils in uncomfortable places, people who couldn't talk for a week, and knights who tripped over air.)

And for the big things, the really big things, the things they only whispered about . . .

Camelot was attacked rather a lot. In the aftermath, just about anything could be made to look like an accident. Or, at least, enemy action.

So they said, at least.

(They also said that Shane would never walk again, that the scar on Sara's face wouldn't fade, and that Megan would lose her job for sure. The prince's servant said otherwise, and, strangely enough, he was right.)

(The word _strange_ came up a lot around Merlin.)

There weren't limits, strictly speaking. They'd gone so far as to avenge themselves on Uther . . . Not fully, not as boldly as with the others, but if the man wanted to eat hot food that didn't hurt his stomach and stop finding spiders in his boots, maybe he needed to start thinking through his policies a bit more.

It was generally understood, however, that any and all complaints about Arthur were to be given to Merlin, and that whatever Merlin did about it was the end of the matter.

No killing the king, no touching the prince without permission. Talking was fine, as in the case of the gardener, but anything else was out.

(Merlin came to the kitchen for the prince's breakfast one day in his second year there, and he looked . . . strange.

Like he'd been crying, only Merlin never cried.

They poked and they prodded but he wouldn't say what had happened. He didn't have to for them to know it had been bad. He finally started crying, but all he would say was ask _why_.

They had a better question. They asked _who_.

Merlin just said the prince was waiting and he needed to go.

 _The prince would listen_ , they tried to tell him. _The prince_ _might help._

When Merlin just shook his head, Cook knew. It took the others a minute, but servants didn't survive by being stupid, just by pretending to be.

So they pretended not to know, and they let Merlin go, and they were kind to Merlin in every way they could think of until there was light in his eyes again.

The prince was off limits. That hadn't changed, and they knew, in the back of their minds, that Merlin was not a man to cross when it came to that piece of the code, not even now.

So the steward and the cook and the gardener conspired, and they managed to send someone up to Arthur other than Merlin as often as they could.

Not someone incompetent or harmful.

Someone dull. Someone obsequious. Someone who would make everything around them just slightly wrong and who would "help" in entirely unhelpful ways that it was impossible to outright accuse them over.

Someone who had, according to rumor, been the one to take out the last two nobles who thought they could do what they liked and then count on help when attacks came.

No one who mattered ever suspected George, but the servants all saw what happened when he volunteered to help in the kitchen - specifically, they saw what he could do with knives.)

(Well, Merlin didn't. He was out hunting with the prince.)

* * *

 _They didn't have rules in the traditional sense, and it was never as simple as an eye for an eye._

 _But if the law didn't consider them worth defending, they would have to defend themselves, and they had gotten very, very, good at it._


	34. The First Thing You Need to Know

_The first thing you need to know about magic is that everyone has at least a little._

* * *

The first thing you need to know about Percival is that his magic comes out when he talks about what he wants.

The second thing you need to know about Percival is that he doesn't talk much.

* * *

 _The second thing you need to know about magic is that although trained mages almost always use spells to increase their power, natural magic can come out in any number of ways._

* * *

The first thing you need to know about Leon is that his magic comes out when he sings.

The second thing you need to know about Leon is that he's been telling everyone for years that his singing voice sounds like a cat shrieking.

This is actually true. There's a reason no one knew about his ability even before the Purge. Magical talent and musical talent don't always go together.

* * *

 _The third thing you need to know about magic is that not everyone realizes they have it._

* * *

The first thing you need to understand about Gwen is that for most of her life, she was far too poor to afford mirrors, so she genuinely doesn't realize that her eyes glow when she sews. This doesn't stop her from always sewing hunched over because part of her knows she's safer if no one can see her eyes.

The second thing you need to know about Gwen is that after she marries Arthur, she doesn't sew as much anymore.

* * *

 _The fourth thing you need to know about magic is that it can be suppressed._

* * *

The first thing you need to know about Gwaine is that he can make things explode with his mind. This is not as useful as he once thought it would be, namely because Gwaine is not stupid, and he knows that if he goes around doing this, eventually he's going to get caught.

The second thing you need to know is that Gwaine is terrified of dying like his sister did - namely, tied to a stake.

The third thing you need to know about Gwaine is that he started drinking in an attempt to get rid of the dreams that came when he didn't use magic. Eventually he realized drinking made the urge to use magic go away for as long as the buzz lasted.

Unfortunately the effectiveness of that remedy fades over time. Gwaine realized it shortly before he joined in a bar fight he never dreamed he could win.

* * *

 _The thing that no one talks about regarding magic, but that is far more important than any of the other details, is that not using magic drives people mad._

* * *

What you already know about Uther is that once his wife died, he refused to have anything to do with magic, including his own.

What you already know about Uther is that eventually, this had a cost.

* * *

 _The other thing about magic that no one in Camelot talks about is that not all magic can be helped._

* * *

The dreams started for Arthur at about the same as they did for Morgana. Unlike Morgana, he didn't go to Gaius with them. He was the heir to the kingdom. He couldn't be seen running off in hysterics just because he had a few bad dreams.

No matter how bad they got.

He realizes that the dreams are visions eventually which means he has magic, and as everyone knows, magic is evil, so he is evil.

He doesn't dare trust himself after that.

* * *

 _The thing that no one was ever sure about, not even Gaius, was how, exactly, this affected Emrys._

* * *

Hunith believed that since the magic was so strong in her boy he was driven to use it more frequently than most, and Gaius had to admit, that might be true. That might be why he was so reckless with it.

The dragon believed Merlin was magic itself which would mean that instead of his magic pushing him to the brink, he was pushing the boundaries to get attention and ignoring him was never exactly safe.

Gaius's magic certainly got more . . . demanding once Merlin came.

* * *

 _The last thing you need to know about magic is that despite all of this, no one who had tasted it could quite keep from loving it, no matter what else it did._

* * *

 ** _A/N: It's been so long I felt awkward asking Doberler about it, so this is unbeta'd. All mistakes are my own._**


	35. Not a Stupid Man

Lord Richards was not a stupid man.

He didn't like the king's decision to throw away a profitable treaty with Nemeth for the sake of some serving girl. He didn't like the way the young king pushed the already fragile kingdom by forcing the nobles to accept common born knights. He certainly didn't like the complacency towards magic that allowed Emrys himself to continue on as the king's manservant.

That last he didn't entirely blame the king for. The king was a busy man; he couldn't be expected to keep up with everything his servant did, and what man, when he looked at that idiot, would ever jump to magic as a conclusion, no matter what the evidence? If Lord Richards himself had taken years to discover the truth, than he could hardly expect a youngling like Arthur to figure it out on his own.

So he didn't blame him for not spotting it off hand, but he blame him for not purging the staff every so often. That would have taken care of the problem.

Purge the servants, marry for the good of the kingdom, for the love of Camelot, risking a civil war over a few brawlers . . . Lord Richards had plenty of thoughts.

But Lord Richards was not a stupid man.

Which was why, when some of his fellow nobles were caught muttering and subsequently had to face the wrath of the king, he was not among them.

Which was why, when some of his fellow nobles were caught plotting and subsequently disappeared while Merlin was going "herb picking", he was not among them.

Which was why, when the knights started throwing their weight around on the training field, he wasn't among the humiliated knights.

Well, that and the fact that his bad knee had kept him from fighting for years. Cursed wounds didn't heal easy, and not even Gaius could heal everything sent against men who had fought for Uther in the Purge.

Lord Richards saw Agravaine fall and brash young knights go home blushing, and he learned from others' mistakes not to attack directly.

He didn't accuse Gaius of anything despite the books he knew the man still kept.

He didn't try and kill Merlin.

He didn't even say rude things about the Queen.

All of those things would fail and thus be utterly pointless, and Lord Richards was, above all, not a stupid man. He might have come home with a bad knee, but the rest of the men who'd been in that attack hadn't come back at all. He knew when to attack and when to wait, and now was a time to wait.

Wait, until good luck and well paid spies told him where Merlin - Emrys, whatever the boy's real nae was - where that hid his book of magic.

Another man would have gone and told the king, but that had been tried, and after so many times accusations against Merlin having been proven false, Richards doubted Arthur would believe a signed confession. Emrys might have him bewitched, for all he knew.

No, the king was a lost cause.

But the knights. Brash. Young. Eager for glory. Eager to win the respect of the court.

They would be happy to take out a sorcerer.

Whether or not they actually wasn't his problem. Either they would take Emrys out, and probably be a few smaller in number for their troubles, or Emrys would wipe them out and possibly reveal himself in the process. Either way, he won.

He started with Gwaine. Percival was too quiet to do much good at stirring up the others, Elyan might approach the Queen - and through her, the king - about the matter, and Richards still had a soft spot for Sir Leon. He might have the chosen the wrong side in politics, but Sir Leon was a good man, and he'd earned his place in the knights. Richards would rather not see him dead at Emrys' hands.

Gwaine, though, was a hothead and a loud one. Richards waited until just before Gwaine usually left for the tavern and then went and knocked on his chamber door. Gwaine drank alone, so now was his best chance for a private meeting.

Gwaine looked surprised to see him, naturally enough, but the fool waved him in anyway with a careless gesture that set Richards' teeth on edge.

"What brings you here, your lordship?" Gwaine leaned against the mantle on the fireplace. He didn't offer his visitor a chair.

Richards gritted his teeth but forced himself to remain collected. "A servant found a disturbing item recently, and, not knowing what to do with it, brought it to me. I would have brought it to the king, but . . . " He shrugged helplessly. "It's a difficult matter. I thought someone else might be better suited to handle the situation."

Gwaine frowned. "What was it?"

"Ah!" He opened the satchel he'd brought with him and pulled the book out. "I didn't want to be seen carrying it, you understand," he said apologetically as he handed it over. "As far as I can tell, it's a book of magic." That it was a book of magic was evident from the first page, but he wasn't entirely certain the so-called knight could read.

Gwaine flipped through it quickly, frown even deeper. He froze when the scribblings in the margins finally caught his eye.

"I compared the handwriting to a vial of medicine Gaius sent with the boy," he added softly. "It is most certainly Merlin's."

Gwaine was still examining the pages. "You told the king about this yet?"

"Not yet. I thought perhaps it would cause less embarrassment if the knights were to take care of this . . . quietly."

"Much less," Gwaine agreed. He set the book down carefully and started walking over to Lord Richards. "After all, he's already had to deal with far too many traitorous nobles."

"Trai- "

Gwaine closed the distance between them with a lunge and pressed Richards up against the stone wall. One hand pinned his shoulder to the stone. The other was wrapped uncomfortably tight around his neck.

"Traitorous nobles," Gwaine said pleasantly. "What else can you call it when a respected lord is found forging a servant's handwriting in a book of magic?

" I - didn't - " he choked out.

"My word against yours on that, mate. And when it comes to Merlin, who do you think Arthur's more likely to believe?"

He couldn't breathe, much less think.

Gwaine abruptly let him go, smiling like a man about to win at cards with an ace he'd pulled from his sleeve. "Unless, of course, that wasn't what happened. You could have been tricked by the servant that gave it to you. A little too eager for some coin, were they?"

Lord Richards was gasping too hard to reply.

"We needn't get into which servant it was, of course, since the plot failed. In fact, there'd be no real need to mention this to anyone at all." Gwaine's dark eyes glittered as he silently dared Lord Richards to try and squirm out of it any other way.

"No need at all," Lord Richards finally managed.

"Excellent!" Gwaine clapped him on the back. "I'll just take care of what remains then," he nodded toward the book, "and you can go sleep the sleep of the just."

Richards could have argued the point. Could have stayed and at least angled to get the book back.

Instead, he backed out the door.

He was not, after all, a stupid man.

* * *

Richards was a problem, Gwaine thought grimly. Something would have to be done about that.

In the meantime, he had a book of magic to deal with. Merlin would be wanting this back, and in the interest of not giving him a heart attack, Gwaine should probably try not to get noticed sneaking it back underneath that floorboard.

That would never work. Maybe he could just leave it someplace Merlin could steal it back from.

Out loud, he just chuckled and said, "Imagine thinking Merlin had magic."

Gwaine was not a superstitious man, but he'd heard Lancelot's stories, and he'd watched Lancelot die. Twice.

It could be a coincidence, but Gwaine didn't really believe in coincidences. He did, however, believe in destiny, curses, and bad luck, all things that seemed to hang around Merlin in abundance.

Alright, maybe he was a little superstitious, but was it really superstition if it was actual magic?

Gwaine wasn't sure. It was hard to be sure of a lot of things in Camelot. Regardless, he wasn't about to admit what he knew out loud.

He'd tell Merlin he'd found a weird book tomorrow. He was sure it would be gone by evening.

In the meantime, there were a few things he wanted to look up. He hadn't had anything to drink lately; the alcohol should be out of his system enough for him to work a few simple spells, and who could resist the spell book used by Emrys himself? Maybe he could even find a nonlethal way to keep Richards' mouth shut.

After making sure the door was firmly shut, Gwaine settled in to read.

* * *

 **A/N:** **I love giving unexpected characters magic.**

 **I know fandom tends to think alcohol would make magic go crazy, but since alcohol's a depressant, I wondered if it might work the other way, at least for people who weren't Emrys. Thus, Gwaine getting drunk in an attempt to suppress his magic, an attempt I do not at all endorse (not that it applies to real life, anyway), but that did seem rather in character.**

 **StarlightInHerEyes22's fic got me thinking about people making assumptions and outsider pov's, so I credited them for inspiring this fic. Hope you enjoyed!**


	36. Always a Price

There are some types of magic that simply shouldn't be used. The consequences for getting the slightest thing wrong are too unimaginable.

Nimueh had never been one for following those rules.

* * *

She had never liked Uther. She loved Ygraine like a sister, but she didn't care for Uther in the slightest.

So when she began her spell, life for a life, she knew what life she intended to exchange.

 _The mother,_ the magic seemed to hiss, _it must be the mother._

She was a high priestess of the old religion. She didn't _have_ to do anything.

 _Uther,_ she demanded.

She felt the magic grip Uther, but the little life inside Ygraine began to flicker. The connection between father and son was not quite strong enough for this type of working, not yet.

She gritted her teeth and held on. She could do this, she could, she could -

* * *

No type of magic likes to be ordered around. If you try to force it, magic gets contrary and refuses to do anything at all, or it makes a fool of you in some way.

Of course, magic isn't human. It doesn't see much difference in making a fool of you by breaking your chair and making a fool of you by killing someone you were trying to save. What are mere lives to a force of nature?

* * *

Uther blamed magic. He never articulated quite what he blamed it for, but he blamed the magic.

He fought a war against it he never seemed quite able to win and fought to hold his head high as his kingdom crumbled around him and magic crept in every time he turned his back.

It was everywhere, and he could trust no one at all, not even his son, because his son had been conceived of it, and that meant the seed of evil was somewhere inside.

Magic was everywhere, taunting him, and it was a torment unlike any other to batter himself to pieces trying to rip it out.

* * *

There comes a point in every spell where it's too late to salvage it. Nimueh never realized that, so she called on Gaius to help, and Gaius, ever loyal, could not refuse her. He demanded the magic work to his will, even though he knew better, because his king was dying, and what else could he do?

No matter what it cost him.

* * *

Gaius's bones had creaked for as long as he could remember. It was a petty agony, but one that wore him away bit by bit, much like watching his friends fall, one by one, and being powerless to help.

His king was all he had left now, and he could not give up on Uther, not ever, because to admit that his king was not worthy to rule would be to admit that every execution had been for nothing.

* * *

Magic always demands a price, and it isn't always a fair one. It reached out and out, claiming all those who offended it in those long weeks after Nimueh was declared a traitor.

Lancelot wanted so badly to be a knight. A noble wish, to be sure, but one that had a secret behind it.

He had thought, once, if he could only turn over a sorcerer to the vengeful monarch of Camelot that his place would be assured.

He never thought of what had come after that. Never.

But when he came across another young sorcerer, alone in the woods and in danger of dying, he had chosen a very different course of action. He'd devoted himself to saving that stupidly brave warlock's life until at last he was granted rest in the form of a cold so deep it buried any memory of flames.

* * *

It claimed Nimueh too, of course, and all the petty sorcerers fool enough to speak in her defense.

They came raging to Camelot, never seeming to realize the futility of their plans.

Edwin Muirden remembered the flames. Iseldir remembered that it was very important that he not fight. Kilgharrah remembered anger enough to fell the stars.

None of them quite remembered why, but they all remembered something.

* * *

It claimed cowards that turned on their neighbors and mercenaries that should have known better. It didn't care that the blacksmith had a family he was terrified of losing or that the blacksmith's daughter had only wanted to save her brother. It didn't care that the mercenaries had been ready to do anything to make amends.

It didn't care for reasons, only vengeance.

* * *

 _She mustn't tell._ Those were the words that came to mind every time Gwen saw Merlin. No matter what he did, she mustn't tell anyone, not even Merlin himself. She had learned that lesson somewhere, probably when she was very young. Whatever happened, she must not tell, or something awful would happen, even if Uther was gone and Arthur was reasonable.

 _He can't stay._ That was what Elyan knew. If he stayed, Gwen would get hurt, so he mustn't stay. He must not make demands of her or look too closely at anyone in the castle. If they were odd, he would let them be. Staying anywhere long enough to notice those things meant he was getting too close.

 _He can't stand to think._ Gwaine's sister was a witch. He drowned that thought in drink, even though he knew how dangerous that was. It had been a mind weakened by drink that had betrayed him last time, and that can't happen again, but there's no one left to protect, so why not drown his thoughts? Only it didn't work, nothing worked, until he got a second chance, and he threw himself into the fray.

They feel the flames, all of them, in the bite of Morgana's magics. They feel the loneliness that comes from being the last. They know what it means to run aimlessly, exiled from their homes. One by one, they pay their dues, but they burn first. They give all they have to give until they've nothing left but tears and blood.

* * *

And, of course, it claimed the unborn prince that had been at the heart of the mess. Him, it didn't know quite what to do with.

"I can't decide," Arthur said one night, staring out the window, "if we have the worst luck in Camelot or the best."

"I assume that's a royal we, sire," Merlin said, lips twitching.

"You're in this mess as much as I am."

Merlin held up his hands innocently. "I was never once attacked by a rampaging dragon until I met you. Clearly, this is all your fault."

Arthur rolled his eyes but didn't respond to the barb. "If things keep escalating like this, I'm either going to bring peace to Camelot or send the whole place up in flames."

"Maybe it hasn't been decided yet," Merlin said thoughtfully. "Better play it safe till you're sure."

(Arthur does not play it safe. Arthur takes a dragon forged sword to the heart. Magic, despite itself, regrets this, so it finds itself a loophole it can bring him back with later when it gets bored.)

* * *

It does not claim Ygraine. Not directly. This is far more satisfying.

* * *

The aging queen gripped the armrests of her throne with white-knuckled fingers, but the rage that had propelled her younger years was gone. Now all that was left was the fear that always gripped her when magic itself, in the form of Emrys, showed up.

Excalibur rested on the table between them. The blade glittered with images that fled across its surface too fast for mortal eyes to understand.

"I can't stay long," Emrys said. "Queen Guinevere is expecting Merlin to return soon, and I find it rather annoying to try and keep more than one avatar going at once."

"What does it matter?" Ygraine asked bitterly. "She's in your world. You can twist the rules to adjust for a later meeting."

"I could," Emrys agreed, "but I'm rather looking forward to telling her that your son won't be coming home, so I'd rather not postpone it."

Ygraine did not give him the satisfaction of a cry, but she couldn't stop the blood draining from her face.

Emrys looked amused. "I don't know why you're upset. It's not like anyone ever really dies in that little world I've created. Not until they've atoned properly, and Arthur's far too fun a toy to declare his judgement fulfilled quite yet."

Years ago, she would have protested that. Now she knows better. "Why did you come?" she asked tonelessly. She knew the answer already, but this was their ritual, and she wanted this to be over.

"Because I couldn't save my children when they screamed for me," Emrys replied. "I could snatch away and punish the ones that tried to bend me to their will, but I couldn't save the children who asked instead of demanded." His eyes get just a touch wilder. "But I can see justice done when I see your pain."

"When will you free my people from the half-life you've trapped them in? When will you hold their sins forgiven?"

"When justice has been done," he said, just like he always did.

For the first time, she realized the truth. "Which will not be while I'm alive."

"No," he agreed. "Not another millennia or two, I expect." He tilted his head. "You know, it's the oddest thing. My other avatars, Dragoon and Merlin, have grown fond of them. Merlin especially. I don't know why."

No, she thought, Emrys wouldn't. The sage might cackle at their antics and give them scraps of gifts like an eccentric grandfather, and the child might learn to love them and weep for their pain, but the warrior before her would never see anything but scales to be balanced and toys for his amusement.

Emrys gave her a mocking bow and disappeared. She picked up the sword carefully and pretended she could see her son's face within it. It was a warrior's weapon for a warrior's spell, and it shouldn't surprise her that it was Emrys who held sway over his other aspect in this age of war.

But it occurred to her, as she looked at the sword, that no age, good or bad, could last forever. There had been a time when elders ruled and the world turned on their wisdom and tradition. There would come a time when the young would hold sway and mercy would triumph over blood.

Her foolishness - or Nimueh's, or Gaius's, or her husband's, what did it matter anymore? - had cost them much, and Emrys would make them pay for every drop of blood while Merlin and Dragoon were too weak to stop him.

But someday, when magic stopped being a thing of blood and started being a thing of books or children again . . . Someday, one of the others would reign.

And then, perhaps, her son would finally be free.

* * *

Magic turns just as the cycles of history do. Vengeance rules for now, but Merlin watches and waits while Dragoon cackles in the background.

Someday, Emrys will grow weak.

And when he does, Merlin will be ready.


	37. Daughters of Dragons

There are no female dragonlords. The line passes from father to son, and those that are not dragonkin assume it has nothing to do with mothers and daughters.

But just because their tongues do not know how to twist to call down fire and death from the sky does not mean their hearts aren't full to bursting with it.

* * *

Morgause comes into the world quiet and fierce, and already the candles reach for her. When people start asking pointed questions, she is whispered away to others. Women whose bones may not have been forged in dragonfire, but who know all too intimately the flame.

Morgana comes into the world screaming, like she is already trying to call down a dragon and is refusing to accept the fact that she can't.

 _This is your daughter, Uther,_ Vivienne thinks triumphantly. _She has the blood of kings and dragons both. Do you really think your throne will stand?_

She still couldn't believe the fool had thought she loved him. Did he not remember her father's name? Did he not remember how her brothers had died?

She would obey her husband's wishes and not kill Uther. She owed Gorlois that.

But if Morgana could not tame dragons, she would claim the Pendragon one for her own and burn Camelot to the ground and call it her flame. Vivienne promised her that in a whisper that scorched more than a dragon's breath.

* * *

The fire is in them from the moment they're born, and it snarls and spits and burns them from the inside out.

Balinor's mother had never made a careless movement in her life, he was sure, especially not near an open flame, but burns had always appeared at the tips of her fingers anyway, just as her face was stretched and pink even after weeks of cloudy days.

Her name had been Elaine, but no one except his father had ever called her that. They all called her by her title with careful respect, and they paled when their tongues tripped over the common version of the dragon tongue.

She never lost her temper around him, not once that he remembered, and her voice had been to quiet to dream of it being raised.

Everyone tiptoed around her all the more, because her skin was pink with dragon fire, and they were more afraid of the woman that could keep it in than they were of any amount of snarled, snappish words.

* * *

Morgana grew up running as free as a wildfire, and she didn't stop until she was penned in next to a cold grey hearth in Uther's castle.

She learned to sit quietly, more or less, but there was a dragon in her heart, and if she could not let it roar, she could at least let it breathe a bit of smoke as a warning.

* * *

Amira, upon learning she would never fly on a dragon's back, declared that she would learn to fly herself to the clouds. She joined the High Priestesses of Avalon.

The clouds spat lightning when she called them together and lifted herself up, and she laughed as it danced and thought this was far better than depending on someone else for wings.

* * *

Of course it was fire that burst from Morgana when visions were no longer enough. She shot up and stared at it in terror, not because she was afraid it would hurt her, but because she was afraid the flames that danced inside her were being used up.

* * *

Something had stolen Laudine's fire, everyone agreed. So many children, so close together, her health always so poor . . . It was no wonder she was no longer warm, even in sunlight, or that her tongue, was as lively as a dancing torch, had grown slow. There was an emptiness gaping in her that drove her husband to ever greater lengths to fill.

Perhaps that was why it took her so long to burn, those who were left whispered. The fire had to fill her up before it could claim her for its own.

* * *

Morgana let herself burn cold for a whole year of carefully constructed smiles and heroically swallowed hatred.

She thought back to the dragon and how it had roared its rage at the whole of Camelot and felt an odd longing that she put down to wishing that she could do it like that instead of playing this endless game of waiting.

But then, the dragon had died, and she didn't intend to.

* * *

Ulmire had painted mud on her face when she was six years old and declared that she would be a warrior. When she was sixteen, she painted on her grandmother's colors and rode out to her first battle.

The older she got, the hotter her fire burned, and she had no magic to vent it out with. She had no children to gift it to. It snarled and snapped within her, and she scorched her way through the wars to make Uther king, even though most thought her too old for it by then.

She'd lost count of her years when she rode out with the others at the height of the Purge. She'd never found herself wings, and the only fires she made were with flint and stone, and those poorly. There was a lifetime of dragon blood raging within her, and when it fell on the battlefield, it burned all who touched it to the very bone.

* * *

Morgana couldn't talk to Aithusa in a way they could both understand, and she couldn't order the little dragon to do anything, but she fell in love the moment she saw those wings.

It was right, somehow, in a way nothing else was anymore, so she clung to that feeling, and tried not to feel how the fire inside her was turning her to ashes, bit by bit.

* * *

There had been no dragonlords in Hunith's family for years upon years, but there was still a drop of fire in her veins.

Enough that when a child was born with golden eyes and anyone else would have sent him away to the druids for being so dangerous, that she instead held him closer and whispered with draconic force, " _My_ son."

When he was old enough to fly on his own, he could leave, but until then he was hers, and she would burn the village down before she let someone touch her boy.

* * *

A blade forged in a dragon's breath will kill a High Priestess of the Old Religion.

It will kill a dragonlord too, and it will taste like betrayal when the steel meets blood.

It will the daughter of a dragonlord just as surely, but what no one knows, because no one has ever lived long enough to find out, is that the blade carries enough of the dragon's breath that when it breaks her skin, all the words she's spent her life searching for suddenly find their way to her tongue.

It was their breath that the dragon's had gifted the first dragonlord, after all.

* * *

Uther killed their husbands, their fathers, their brothers, and their sons.

He would have left them alone if they had sat quietly.

But they were the daughters of dragons, and they had fire in their bones that scorched through their veins.


	38. A Merciful Man

Tomas was a merciful man.

He remembered the old days fondly. His job had been easier, once, when his ranks were filled with sorcerers who could stare into water and crystal and tell him not only what Camelot's enemies were planning now but what they would be planning two days from now.

The other nations had magic too, of course, counterspells and charms of their own, but only the Catha could really compete with Camelot on magic. Magic had made his people's craft safer, and it had offered him more options when dealing with enemies. It was easier to be merciful when treaties were magically binding.

Then magic itself had become the enemy, and mercy wasn't quite so easy anymore.

Nevertheless, Tomas was a merciful man. When Uther asked for a list of the magic users amongst his operatives, he had turned over only an incomplete list. He would save those he could.

 _(He stood in the courtyard behind his king while a man who had served him faithfully for years burned at the stake. The length of time he managed to hold back screams was a credit to his training._

 _Tomas made sure the man's family wasn't executed until he was gone. The man had been a faithful worker. He shouldn't have to watch._

 _Tomas was a merciful man.)_

When he received orders to begin searching magic out, he began with the elders. They'd had more time to gather magical knowledge and were far more dangerous, and besides, their time was almost up anyway. It was better that way.

 _(The grandmother had been caught hiding twenty gifted children with spells of concealment. Tomas sent the knights in and warned them to take no prisoners._

 _The grandmother desperately tried to throw up a shield, but her magic was too weak. The knights rode her down, and then moved on to other, smaller forms -_

 _They would not live to be drowned. Tomas was a merciful man.)_

In time, of course, he couldn't trust even the operatives he had saved from the pyre. Loyalty only went so far in times like these. Something would have to be done.

 _(He needed them if he was to have any chance at warding off magical threats, and they had stuck by him this far. Take Raina for instance. She had stayed by him for twenty years, was as good as a daughter to him, and had lost two fingers saving him from an assassin's attack. She was the best scryer he had left. He couldn't turn her over to the pyre._

 _He had artifacts taken from the ruins of the Isle of Avalon: magical collars that bound obedience, rings that directed the wearer's magic to another's will, brands in the shape of runes that impressed one person's will on another's._

 _He did not kill them. Tomas was a merciful man.)_

He hunted down the dragonlords, one by one.

 _("Tell me where they are," he told the prisoner. "Tell me where to find your brothers, and I will spare any women we find with them."_

 _The dragonlord spat blood at him on the first day, and the second, and the third, and the -_

 _But Tomas was patient, and his words were the truth. "If the king finds them first, he will not be so merciful. Come, Gareth. You can trust me. Why should I hurt them? They have no gift."_

 _Tomas did his best to keep his word. He had no choice but to kill Lynette, unfortunately; her lack of magical gifts had not stopped her from learning how to use her husband's sword, but he spared the daughters._

 _He regretted that, later, when they learned how to make their knives dance, and they went after his men. Then, of course, he had to hunt them down._

 _He spared Lyonesse, though. She, alone among the others, had settled down quietly, so there was no reason for him to touch her. He was, after all, a merciful man.)_

 _(It should have occurred to him sooner that there was a reason the dragons had never bonded with a woman, and it had nothing to do with dragons having human ideas about women's place. But that thought only came when one of his men had killed Morgan's son, and she had flown at him with no weapon but her teeth. Tomas stared at the corpse and decided that perhaps the dragons had enough bloodthirstiness of their own without adding a mother to the mix._

 _It might have occurred to him eventually that just because a baby was wrapped in a pink blanket and called Mary by a relative didn't mean they were a girl, and it would have, if it had been a woman saying it, but it hadn't occurred to him that a screaming six year-old would have the presence of mind to change her brother's name mid-scream._

 _It never occurred to him that just because the daughters of dragonlords had no powers didn't mean they had no gifts. Morgan's husband had been a dragonlord, so he knew to kill her son, but it never occurred to him that Lyonesse's daughters would grow up to have sons that could call down fire from the sky.)_

Tomas's dreams ran red with blood, and he no longer trusted the men and women who worked for him, but he remained a merciful man. He did what he had to, nothing more.

He was a merciful man, not a young one, and the strain of living with the stress he had was intense.

A week after a new serving boy he was keeping a very close eye on entered Camelot, his heart finally gave out.

Or at least, that's what they say.

* * *

Matthias was a young man and new to the job. He didn't know all the tricks of the trade quite yet. Tomas had never trusted him with everything.

He would have to do things his own way, of course, and make his own mistakes.

 _("I fear my predecessor dabbled in magic, my lord," he told the king. "I will dismantle it, of course, but I fear it will hurt level of intelligence we have access to."_

 _"Do it," the king ordered. "We must not be soft on this corruption."_

 _Matthias was a young man, so it was understandable if he naively loosed the sorcerers from their collars instead of taking more permanent steps. How was he to know that the collars weren't just magic in and of themselves, they were built to control it in others?)_

He got very good at finding assassins from Lot's kingdom and discovering Bayard's battle plans. Magic, however, continued to elude him.

 _(Yet somehow things always got taken care of in the end. He was a young man. It was understandable if he assumed some arm of Tomas's network was still working independently until he found a way to contact them.)_

Then Arthur was king, and priorities shifted. Barons that had given Uther trouble paused to consider what they would gain and lose from this new king. Uther's old supporters began to balk at Arthur's somewhat laxer stance on magic.

 _(Matthias was a young man. He'd never gotten to know Agravaine all that well. It was understandable if he focused his attention on making sure the man didn't gather support at court. It was understandable if his man in the guard reported that someone followed Agravaine at night, and he decided to assume his people had shown initiative rather than look into the matter further. He was, after all, such a very young man.)_

And his scouts helped them all survive Camlann, so who was going to complain?

 _("How did you never find out?" Merlin asked._

 _"When I took this position, I was a young man - "_

 _"You started ten years ago, and you're sixty now. You were not a young man," Merlin said incredulously._

 _Matthias grinned a little sharply. "By the standards of dragons, we're all young, really.")_

He was a young man (by some standards) and new to the job (because it was ever changing), so really, what did anyone expect?

 _(If they couldn't read between the lines and see behind the lies they all told themselves, they had no place in this business.)_


	39. Other Side: Before

**A/N: Remember those Shard stories I wrote back in Merlin Headcanons? The ones that started with Soulless and went on to Shards of Courage?**

 **This is Merlin's side of that AU. This chapter doesn't touch on the realities previously seen, but you'll still see peeks of that world when Merlin's shard is big enough. In the ones where it isn't . . . Well, Merlin is confused a lot.**

 **Another chapter, dealing with Arthur's returns, will (hopefully) be up tomorrow!**

* * *

 _The First Meeting_

Merlinus, son of Gaius, lived in what had once been a Roman villa. The Saxons had burned it down ten years ago, when he had just been a boy, and no one who had even seen Rome had entered it for as long as Merlinnus had been alive, but his father had told him stories from when he was a boy.

Now his father was gone, and the task of gathering herbs and mixing them fell to him. He had use for them far more often than he would like. Far too many of the children that Gaius had collected on his travels like they were rare mushrooms were sickly. Gaius had said it was because the Saxon magic that had destroyed their villages had poisoned them, and Merlinus had nodded and tried to make himself believe that whatever it was that made the sidhe lead him to good herbs instead of an early death was his politeness and not the same poison coursing through his veins.

There wasn't a child in the villa that didn't call themselves a son or a daughter of Gaius, and Merlinus was afraid that it might not be Briton or Roman blood that flowed through his veins. He'd meant to ask, but he'd never quite found his nerve, and now that Gaius was gone, he was the oldest, so there was no one who would know.

When Gwenhywfar could hunt for the others without aid, he would go, he promised himself as he made willow bark tea to the tune of Gwalchmai's coughs and Daegal's moans. He would go, and he would take his poison with him. Then Gwalchmai would be able to hunt with Gwenhwyfar again instead of trying to take care of the fading Daegal when he was so sick himself. Then Daegal would start eating without prodding. Then Nyneve would sing without gasping for breath, and Freya wouldn't bleed at the slightest provocation while she worked in her garden.

It would do them no good if he left now; starvation was not a preferable fate to illness. He had to wait, he persuaded himself. He had to.

He set the pot he'd brewed the tea in down with more force than was strictly necessary.

"Merlinus?" Modred tugged at his tunic hesitantly.

Merlinus turned to face him and knelt down so he could look him in the eye, but he was careful not to touch him. Modred and Gwenhwyfar were the only two he hadn't made sick yet. He had to keep it that way, or he'd never be able to leave and save the others. "What's happened?"

"There's a man coming soon," Modred said, lip trembling. "He's going to take you away."

Merlinus's breath caught. "Away like Gaius went away?"

Modred shook his head. "Away like Morgan went away," he said accusingly, like that was worse.

Maybe it was, in a way. He didn't blame her for leaving, was glad she was safely away from him and with a family that wanted her, but he wished sometimes that she could have taken the other well ones with her. Gaius hadn't chosen to die of lung fever (lung fever, just lung fever, he hadn't killed his father, he _hadn't_ ), but Morgan had chosen to ride away.

"I won't leave," he promised. "Not unless I have to, to protect you."

"I don't need protecting," Modred said.

"Everyone needs protecting sometimes," Merlinus said automatically. That was what Gaius had always said. "Take the tea out to Gwalchmai, will you? I need to do something with these poppy seeds."

Modred's mouth twisted, but he did as he was told.

Merlin was just reaching for the poppy seeds when he heard Gwenhwyfar scream.

The advantage to living in a crumbling villa was that he rarely had to worry about using a door. There was usually a hole in the wall that would work just as well. It was less convenient in the winter, of course, but for now -

Perhaps he'd get to poison someone deserving for a change.

Gwenhwyfar had pressed herself tightly against the stone wall at the bottom of the hill. She'd leveled her bow at a man who stood frozen with his hand still on his horse's bridle.

Which would have been less alarming if the man hadn't had half a dozen heavily armed friends all very focused on Gwenhwyfar.

Merlinus didn't know what had happened, and for the moment, he couldn't afford to care. He all but flew down the hill.

No weapons. No Gaius to talk them down. Just a slow poison that might leave the men dead in a year but wouldn't do him any good now.

One of the men had been edging closer to Gwenhwyfar. He was almost close enough to reach out and grab her arm -

"Don't touch her!" Merlinus yelled. Some of the men jumped. He had two bows aimed on him now, but he didn't care. He skidded to a stop beside his almost-sister and added, with a sudden burst of inspiration, "You didn't touch her, did you? Not even a little? The last time a visitor touched somebody, they were dead in a week."

The man jerked his hand back like he'd been burned.

The one Gwenhwyfar was aiming at spoke up. He sounded surprisingly calm. "What's going on here?"

Merlinus threw his hands up. "I think I should be asking you that! What do you think you're doing, wandering around a plague house? Didn't you hear her when she told you to back off?" He let his mouth drop open as if sudden realization had hit him. "You're not already sick, are you? Please don't tell me you're sick. We won't have time to cart off the dead at this rate."

Most of the warriors had started edging away. Merlinus ignored the part of him that was screaming its head off and stalked over to the nearest one. "Come on, let me see your hand. Any itching? Redness? Rashes? Bleeding around the nail?" He reached for the man's hand.

The warrior jerked it back. "I'm not touching anyone who's been in a plague house!"

"Well, it's a bit late for that now," he said patiently. "No, there's nothing for it, you're going to have to stay until we see if you've gotten it. I'm sure we can find more vomit bowls somewhere. Gwenhwyfar, why don't you go check? Oh, and see if Freya's stopped bleeding yet. Nyneve said she would help, but honestly, I expect she's passed out by now." He rolled his eyes at the still frozen leader. "You know how it is. One five minute coughing fit, and she thinks she's tough for not passing out."

The warriors looked about ready to bolt.

Then the leader started to clap. "Well played. Very well played, but I'm sure this is just a misunderstanding."

"What part of vomiting up blood are you misunderstanding?" Merlinus demanded.

The leader raised his eyebrows. "Much as I commend your acting skills, I assure you, they're not necessary. I only want to have a word with the healer they call Gaius. My men and I mean no harm, despite the impression we might have inadvertently given."

Gwenhwyfar hadn't lowered her bow. "I followed them for two miles," she told Merlinus. "They think they'll find a wizard here to help them win their battles."

"You are most skilled at stealth, my lady," the leader said slowly. "But I believe you may have misunderstood."

Gwenhwyfar's eyes never left him, but she still directed her words solely at Merlinus. "That torc's pure gold, and the others called him a king. He's too used to getting what he wants, I think, because when I told him he couldn't see Gaius, one his men drew his sword on me."

"That would be Kay," the leader interjected. "He can be . . . rash. I'm Artur. Why don't we discuss this calmly? Without weapons, perhaps."

"Let Gwenhwyfar go check on the others, and I'll talk about anything you want," Merlinus said.

"I can handle this," Gwenhwyfar said calmly. "You go check on the others."

"You can't tell them what they want to know about Gaius," Merlinus pointed out. "You weren't here." He said it gently, but it hit hard all the same. Gwenhwyfar flinched.

Artur was watching them carefully. "By all means."

Gwenhwyfar lowered her bow slowly. "If you hurt him, I will take every piece of plague infested clothing in our house, sell it to the people of your city, and use the profits to buy mead so that when I light whatever remains on fire, it'll burn fast." She started to stalk back up the hill.

The men watched her go with varying degrees of incredulity and alarm.

"I like her," Artur finally said. "What's this about something happening to Gaius?"

Merlinus took a deep breath. "He's dead," he said shortly. "Plague."

One way or another, that was true. It still cost him to say it.

Artur looked stricken. "How long?"

"Does it matter? He's gone, and if there was ever any wizardry in him, it's gone too."

They were fools if they thought Gaius had held the poison. Poisoned men didn't do what Gaius had.

"Did he have an apprentice?" one of the men asked.

 _There's a man coming that will take you away._

Merlinus's breath caught in his throat, but he forced it out anyway. "Yes," he managed.

Artur's eyes were locked on his face. "You."

Nyneve singing until the coughing left her voice hoarse and cracking - Freya's skin, suddenly fragile, tearing open at the slightest pressure while she tried to grow the plants Gaius needed - Daegal telling stories to his sister until she couldn't hear them anymore, and he kept trying anyway, choking over the words - Gwalchmai running through the house with a mischievous laugh, getting slower and slower until one day it was easier not to get out of bed at all - Modred tugging at his tunic -

Gaius, coughing and coughing and coughing and coughing -

"Yes," Merlinus said, almost steadily. "Let me show you what he taught me." He turned and started walking up the hill. He didn't turn back to see if they would follow.

They did although some weren't happy about it.

"Why couldn't we see it from the bottom of the hill?" Kay complained.

"Not now, Kay," Artur said.

Artur didn't understand. Not yet. But Merlinus thought he had guessed better than the others.

There was the villa, blackened and looming. Merlinus led them through the same hole in the wall he'd run through. From there, it was a short walk to the one room that was still perfectly whole.

Gwenhwyfar looked up from tending Nyneve. Her bow was in the corner, so her hand drifted towards her knife. Modred darted up from where he'd been whispering something to Daegal and pushed himself between Merlinus and Artur.

Artur looked around in horror. "It really is a plague house."

"Behold," Merlinus said bitterly, "my magnificent powers."

He waited, arms spread, in terrified triumph. Artur might just order his men to burn the whole place down around them, but at this point, most everything that could burn already had. They were all dying anyway; why not speed it up a little?

He was breathing too fast again, but that was alright, because most of the warriors were beating a fast path out of the hall.

Artur was still there. Artur was looking at him with a sort of terrified determination, and that didn't bode well for any of them.

"What do you need?"

Merlinus blinked. "What?"

"I won a battle a fortnight ago," Artur said. "I won rather a lot of land. This land included, in fact. There are children on my land, they're dying, and you're the only one who seems to be able to stop that. What. Do. You. Need?"

Merlinus stared at him. He wanted to protest, to explain what was really going on, but Daegal, Deagal was coughing, and this was worse than Merlinus had ever heard it. How had it gotten this bad, this quickly?

"Hold him up," he ordered briskly, trying to hide the hint of panic in his voice. "I'll hold the bowl."

Artur did as he was told and that was a point in his favor right there.

Gwalchmai cracked his eyes open beside them as Daegal's fit began to wind down. "Modred says you've come to take Merlinus away," he rasped to Artur.

"He's not going anywhere without you," Artur promised him which was not, Merlinus noted, an actual answer.

Judging by the look on Modred's face, he didn't think it was either.

* * *

 _The First Peaceful Meeting_

Merlin was getting too old for this. Running from the warprinces' men through ancient forests that got tetchy about being offered the proper sacrifices in exchange for protection was a young man's game, not one for a man who had been a youth in Vortigern's day and whose bones ached more every winter.

But every year on the solstice when it came time to consult Morgana, she always insisted it was not yet time for him to step down and seek out a path to Avalon.

He leaned against a tree and didn't bother to pretend that he wasn't out of breath. Will was the only one with him, and the rocks they'd had to climb to get here were sufficient excuse, or at least Will would be willing to pretend they were.

"Do you think she lies about the visions?" Merlin asked him idly.

Will didn't have to ask who he meant. There was only ever one she when it came to visions. Will shifted the heavy pack loading him down and grinned. "Worried she might still be offended about you spilling the wyvern blood on her, old man?"

"Old man yourself," Merlin grumbled. "Vortigern wasn't cold in his grave when you were born."

"Ah, but you were there to see him crowned." Will's grin faded. "You aren't really worried, are you? It's still a month before she gets to declare whether or not you've fulfilled your destiny as our leader yet. That's plenty of time to get back on her good side if she's holding a grudge. Or I could have a little talk with her, if you like," he added as an afterthought. The deceptively pretty tattoos that marked him as a deathbringer glowed slightly.

Merlin gave him a flat look and pretended Will wasn't dead serious about his offer.

They did a lot of pretending these days.

He tried for a cheery grin. "Never mind. She's too good of a seer to lie."

Merlin was nearly certain she'd been lying for years and was too stubborn to admit it, but surely not even she could pretend that this was destiny's will for much longer. Merlin's magic was as strong as ever, but it wasn't enough to keep the warprinces from spilling his people's blood across the forest floor. Warprince Arthur in particular had gotten far too good at slicing through his illusions and setting fire to the trees that tried to hide them. Merlin's people's loyalty might blind them, but not even that could deafen them to the forest's whispers for much longer.

Merlin was old. He was tired. He missed walking the paths to Avalon's shores as he had done in his youth. These days, he didn't dare. The forest would lead him there, surely enough, but he doubted it would let him return. It had loaned him too much time as it was even if he didn't fully look it.

But Avalon and its peace would have to wait until the warprinces no longer cut his people down like they were wheat at the harvest.

Which meant, in practical terms, that he would never see it at all. Avalon was a rest for chieftains of old who waited to be called again, not an afterlife for those too stubborn to see their time had come and who remained until they were killed, and _I blame Morgana_ probably wouldn't convince the fey to see it otherwise.

She probably did it out of fondness, but she did him no favors.

Just as he did his people no favors by putting this out of his mind.

"Warprince Arthur has emerged victorious from the infighting," he told Will quietly. "He's been crowned king."

"May he grow fat and useless quickly," Will said, miming a mocking toast. "There's our reprieve over, but at least he won't be out here chasing us anymore."

"Absolutely," Merlin said, just a little too quickly.

Will groaned. "Merlin . . . "

Merlin winced. "He sent a raven. He wants to meet."

"No," Will said instantly.

"Just me," Merlin said reassuringly. "Not the rest of the chiefs - "

" _No._ You idiot."

"Well, give me some better options, then!" Merlin snapped. "We can't spend this winter running, Will. We barely survived the last one, and it was mild enough. This one . . . " He waved a hand at the snow already dusting the ground and the way their breath hovered visible in the air.

"It's just a bit of snow," Wil said defensively.

"Yes," Merlin said with a manically wide grin. "Except, technically, it's not even supposed to be winter yet, Will! We need peace!"

"What makes you think he doesn't just want your head on a stake?" Will demanded. "You honestly think changing out his war banner for the king's is going to have turned him into a reasonable man?"

"I think the children are starving, the deathbringers are dying, and the mages are killing themselves trying to work enough magic to save us all. If I'm the man to stop it, why not like this? If I'm not, what does the tribe lose?"

Will stared at him like he'd grown two heads. "You. It loses you. And you'll lose your _head_. If you're lucky."

Merlin's lips twitched. "So you're coming with me then?"

Will threw his hands up in the air. "How did someone with such a sensible mother turn out to be so utterly insane?"

"I blame my father," Merlin said, using Will's distraction and a bit of magic to start floating some of the items weighing down Will's pack into his own.

"Your father was a bard. A bard, Merlin. Not a berserker, not a seer, not even the village drunk. A bard."

"So was I, in my youth," Merlin pointed out.

"Fair enough. Bards are crazy," Will ceded. He snatched the pot out of the air before it could bury itself in Merlin's pack. "Try that again, and I'll start carrying your pack too, see if I don't," he threatened.

"I don't need coddling," Merlin grumbled, pushing himself fully upright and reaching for his staff. It would be a long walk to the new king's camp.

Will was kind enough not to say anything about the sharp coughs that plagued him all the way uphill, but he did have a bitterly triumphant glare on his face.

Merlin considered whacking him with his staff, but that would mean he wasn't using it for support, and on balance (hah) that didn't seem like a particularly good idea.

The warcamp had taken up residence in Baron Gaheris's hill fort. The thick log walls made Merlin nervous and Will even more so, but they were in no position to bargain. A traditional warcamp wouldn't have been much easier to escape; the open air would have provided only an illusion of safety. Merlin might have been able to shift himself into a bird and escape, but Will couldn't, and Merlin wouldn't have left him behind, a fact Will had grudgingly learned to accept.

Walking through the courtyard to the hall where they were to meet the king made the back of his neck prickle as he waited for arrows or for the bar to be dropped onto the gate. The warriors they passed didn't seem much happier. They stood in respectful lines, but their eyes kept dropping to Merlin's staff and Will's tattoos.

Aren't we a jumpy lot, Merlin thought sourly. This was doomed to fail and he knew it. He wouldn't have even tried it except, well, it was Arthur. Which wasn't a good enough reason to even think too loudly, let alone tell someone else, but despite everything, he could never quite shake the tiny part of him that insisted he could trust Arthur.

That part of him had cost him three scars and a perfectly good staff, but it was the same part of him that had whispered to him how and when Vortigern would die, so he couldn't help but hope that maybe, maybe . . .

King Arthur was waiting impatiently outside the doors to the hall. A ridiculously tall and burly knight was standing behind him with his arms crossed and much the same expression on his face that was on Will's. The if-you-insist-on-doing-this-stupid-thing-at-least-I'm-here-to-kill-the-first-person-to-touch-you look. It was strangely comforting.

Ah, Endurance, part of him whispered.

Cryptic pronouncements were all well and good, but Merlin really wished that that they'd have the courtesy to at least not be ambiguous to the person they presented themselves to.

And then suddenly he was almost within sword's reach of Arthur, and he was having to press down his magic's instinctive certainty that someone was about to die.

Merlin managed to tear his eyes away from the weapons strapped to Arthur's waist. He was far too familiar with most of them.

Although to be fair, Arthur probably didn't have too many fond memories of his staff, either.

Except Arthur wasn't staring at his staff. He was staring at Merlin's eyes, and Merlin wasn't sure what expression it was crossing Arthur's face, but suddenly it was making him even more nervous than the various weapons in the vicinity. At least the weapons made sense.

"You came," Arthur said with more satisfaction than was strictly necessary.

"You don't sound surprised," Merlin noted.

Arthur grinned and Merlin wasn't sure if he should run or smile back. "Well, I needed to find you, so I kept coming up with plans until I hit on one my advisors said only a madman would go for. Since they were the same ones that said no one would be insane enough to attack Glastonbury with only sixty men, and you did it alone . . . "

Merlin winced. Will still hadn't forgiven him for that one. Neither had his bad leg.

His throat itched. He tried in vain to swallow it down. Not here, not here -

It felt like ten minutes before he emerged from a coughing fit that left him gasping and hastily wiping tears from his eyes.

Will was in front of him, arms bared and with a warning growl snarling out of his throat. Most of the warriors had a hand on their weapons like they thought the coughing fit was some sort of sneak attack, but Arthur had a hand up to stop them from acting.

"You don't look well."

"You look the same as ever," Merlin managed. It came out a bit snippily. "And that's not a compliment."

Not very diplomatic, but it made Arthur laugh, so maybe Morgana's prediction that his tongue would be the death of him could be held off for a bit longer. "Come on. There's a fire inside."

Will stepped back to Merlin's side. Merlin raised an eyebrow. "You're very concerned about my health for someone who's repeatedly tried to take my head off with a battle-ax."

A strange smile quirked Arthur's mouth. "Let's just say kingship has . . . changed my perspective on some matters."

"Enough to talk peace?"

Arthur met his gaze steadily. "Enough to do just about anything to get it."

It could just be a trap, but they were already here within the walls. What would one more set of them hurt?

"A fire, you say?" He started forward slowly.

"And meat roasting over it," Arthur promised. His eyes darted over Merlin and seemed to catch on the way his belt overlapped too much around his waist.

"If you start in on my not eating enough, I'm going to think Morgana's possessed you," Merlin warned him as he passed him into the hall.

Arthur startled a little, but he covered the moment with a snort. "Don't be ridiculous."

Merlin couldn't help but notice that his plate seemed abnormally full, all the same.

* * *

 _The First Prophecy_

The boy huddled in the back of his cell. It was always so cold here. Why did it have to be so cold?

He remembered fire. He remembered the screams that had come with it and the sound of steel too, but he didn't like to think about those. He thought about the fire instead, and the warmth of a woman's arms as she'd cradled him and sang a pretty song in his ear.

She had called him something, he remembered, but he couldn't remember what, and he hadn't seen her since three cells ago. No one who had vanished for more than one cell change had ever come back.

A bit of light started to glow outside the bars of his cell. He shut his eyes tightly and whimpered. Someone was coming, and he'd only just finished the bread he'd been tossed. It was never good when someone came without food.

He cracked his eyes open, just a bit, when the footsteps came closer and stopped outside the bars. He shut them again quickly when he saw who it was.

It was the sharp man with the shiny hair. If it had been the woman who came sometimes, that would have been alright. She liked to hear about her future, and if he did a good job telling it, she would stroke his hair through the bars and tell him that someday she would get him a better cell. If it had been the grey man, that might have been alright too. He kicked the boy sometimes, and he shouted a lot, but lately he'd grown quiet, and the kicks didn't hurt as much.

But the sharp man was angry, and now that he was wearing the gold thing the grey man always wore, he would be angrier still. He hadn't wanted the gold thing. He had wanted to save the grey man.

The bars creaked open. The boy curled in on himself and bit his lip to stop himself from crying out. He had tried to help the sharp man save the grey one, he had, but he didn't understand the things he said any better than they did. He didn't even understand all the words.

The sharp man was close now, too close, but he had knelt down next to the boy instead of shouting. "Look at me."

The words were softer than he'd heard in a long time, and maybe this would be all he wanted. He had to look to give a prophecy. A prophecy wasn't so bad.

He looked and the words tumbled out without his permission.

"Half the Table's already dead, and half the remainder hate you. Endurance is gone, Strength despises you, and Honor's loyalty is stained by despair. Love hasn't abandoned you yet, but she'll choose Chivalry before the end. Vengeance - " He bit down hard on his tongue. Vengeance was pretty and nice and stroked his hair. And he knew better than to give a prophecy like this, he knew better, but the effort of holding the words back made it feel like his chest would burst.

But the sharp man just kept looking at him steadily. "What of Magic?"

The boy shivered. The sharp man had understood what he said when even the boy didn't, and people were never happy when they figured out what the prophecies meant.

The sharp man raised a hesitant hand. The boy flinched back. The man lowered it instantly.

"It's alright," he said. "I - " He lowered his head, looking ashamed. "What about Magic?" He sounded almost like he was pleading. The boy knew what pleading sounded like.

"Magic doesn't have a choice," the boy whispered. "It doesn't get to vote."

The sharp man looked like he'd heard those words before and didn't like remembering them. "A wise woman once said that everyone has a choice," he said. "Sometimes it's just easier to think you don't."

The boy didn't know what he was talking about, but he wasn't shouting. He always shouted before he started hitting, so that was alright.

The sharp man reached for him again, but it didn't hurt when he laid his hand on the boy's arm. "It's going to be alright," he said. "Come on." He got to his feet and offered the boy a hand.

The boy stared at it. The sharp man sighed and reached down to take his hand and pull the boy to his feet.

"Am I going to a new cell?" he asked quietly. The grey man had moved him to a different cell after the first time he heard the boy prophesy.

The sharp man's hand tightened. "Somewhere better," he promised. "I'm going to fix this."/p

Part of the boy wanted to warn him that no one could fix the words, but he didn't want to risk losing the somewhere better.

He stumbled a bit as the sharp man led him up the hallway. He hadn't walked this far in a long time.

The sharp man stopped. The boy flinched back, but the sharp man just picked him up like the woman in the fire had done.

"I'm going to fix this, Merlin," the sharp man said again, so low the boy could barely hear.

Merlin. The boy mouthed the word. It wasn't what the woman had called him, but it was close enough.

The sharp man wasn't very sharp anymore. Maybe he should start calling him the shiny man instead.

* * *

 _The Sword_

The Emrys made his way between the narrow rows of tents. Calling them tents was generous in most cases, really. No one had been planning on an extended camping tree when this started, and it showed.

Arthur was sitting by a small fire outside one of the only real tents that they had. Arthur had tried to protest, but the Emrys had insisted.

The Emrys dropped down beside him and stared in silence at the fire for a while, waiting for Arthur to speak. When he didn't, the Emrys sighed.

"I'm supposed to be an old man, you know."

Arthur looked up at him. "What?"

"The Emrys is supposed to be a wise elder, not a young dollophead. Right now, though, I'm the best they've got, and I've learned to make that good enough. You were born to be king, Arthur. Younger than you expected or not, you will be good enough. There's no possible world where you wouldn't be." And the Emrys knew that better than most. He'd glimpsed some of those worlds in his dreams.

"For a leader of a rebellion against the Pendragons, you're amazingly supportive," Arthur said drily.

"For a Pendragon, you're amazingly non-stabby."

Arthur stared at him.

"What?"

Arthur shook his head. "I'm just trying to wrap my head around the fact that one of the most feared men in Albion just said 'non-stabby.'"

"It's a perfectly good word!"

"Of course it is." Arthur shook his head again. "It helps that I don't have anything to be 'stabby' with."

The Emrys tried to look apologetic. "We thought it best to be careful until we knew how you'd take the news of your regent's death."

Something dark flitted over Arthur's face. "Agrivain got what was coming to him."

"And on that happy note," he said cheerily, "it's my pleasure to announce that we got a new sword for you.

"What was wrong with my old one?"

The Emrys winced. "Parsifal got a little . . . twitchy."

Parsifal had vaporized the sword, but there was no need to get into all the details.

"In better news, Lance has forged you a new one," he added brightly as he pushed himself to his feet. "Follow me."

Arthur hurried after him. "I thought Lance was camped over by the road."

The Emrys waved a hand. "You know Lance's sense of the dramatic."

He could have sworn he heard Arthur mutter, "Lake or stone?"

He must have overheard Lance and Parsifal arguing that point earlier. Little did he know that the Emrys had been called in to settle the argument.

Why choose between lake or stone when you could so easily stick the stone in the lake?

* * *

 _The Golden Age_

"What's the name today?" Arthur didn't even look up from his paperwork at the sound of the balcony door closing.

"Merlin," the intruder decided. "And you really need to be more careful. What if it had been someone else?"

Arthur's pen froze in its progress across the parchment. "Merlin?" he repeated.

"Of course that's the part you care about," he grumbled, crossing the room to crouch in front of the fire. "Yes, Merlin. It's a kind of falcon. I thought I'd stick with the theme."

Arthur started writing again. "You're starting to get predictable."

"And your tells are just as obvious as ever. I can pick another name if this one bothers you that much." The remains of Arthur's dinner were sitting on a table by the fire. Merlin started to wolf them down. "You need to start eating more, by the way. What did you do, take one bite and say you were done?"

"I'm fine," Arthur snapped. "I'm fine, the name's fine, everything's fine."

Merlin hunted through the greens on the plate for another piece of chicken. "Everything except for the situation with Mercia."

Arthur groaned. "Please don't tell me Bors was fool enough to make a deal with the sidhe."

Merlin considered that. "Does it still count as Bors doing it if he's possessed?"

Arthur's goblet hitting the opposing wall wasn't quite an answer, but it was close enough. Merlin was more interested in the strawberries that had been hiding at the bottom of the bowl.

"Will any contracts he makes be binding?"

Merlin winced. "If he makes them as Bors? No. If he makes them as king? Only once he goes through the ceremony again. Which he's doing on the new moon, by the way."

"Of course he is."

Merlin didn't like the note of resignation in Arthur's voice. "Don't worry. I'll take care of it."

"You, alone. Against an army of sidhe bodyguards. Yes, Merlin, that's a fantastic idea." The sarcasm in his voice was heavy enough to outweigh the treasury.

Merlin shrugged. "It'll be just like the Catha job."

"You came back from that half-dead from that changeling's poisoned arrows."

"I got the job done, didn't I? You're focusing on the wrong details here," Merlin argued.

"Your luck will run out eventually," Arthur said.

It wasn't luck, but Arthur didn't need to know that, so he just said, "I knew you liked me. Deep, deep down."

"Don't let it go to your head."

Merlin grinned. "No worries. I am fully aware of my expendable status." He abandoned what remained of the food and stretched. "I'll go take care of the Bors problem. Do me a favor, will you?"

Arthur had been king too long to agree automatically. His eyes narrowed. "What?"

Merlin headed to the balcony doors so that he'd have an easy escape. "Don't marry Gwen."

Arthur stared at him. "That's not a favor, that's a declaration of war. I signed a treaty with King Leodegrance a fortnight ago!"

Merlin winced. "Well, if I'd been here a fortnight ago, I'd have told you not to sign it. My opposing number's been at her side for years, and if she's not bewitched six ways to Sunday by now, I'm just a poor, lost farmer's boy."

Merlin always hated it when the news he brought gave Arthur that pinched look.

"I thought Morwena was in Lot's Kingdom."

"Morwena's flexible."

"That's not an actual answer, you know." Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. "I can put off the wedding while you take care of Bors. After that . . . "

"I'll take care of it, sire," Merlin promised him.

Arthur's eyes flew open. "No assassinations this time."

That would make things more difficult, but he smiled innocently. "Who? Me?"

Then he slipped out onto the balcony before Arthur could start throwing things.

Free in the night, he shed the assumed name as easily as a cloak. Once he was sure he was out of sight of the guards, he shed the glamour too. The magic always itched like crazy.

The grey skin of a changeling was barely noticeable in the moonlight. His grimace when he looked down at his hands wasn't noticeable either.

He couldn't choose where he had been born, but as long as no one found out about that, he could choose a side.

And if it was a choice that was almost instinctual, well, that was no one's business but his own.

* * *

 _The Beginning of the End_

Myrddin eyed Sir Ywain beadily from his perch on the back of his king's chair. If the man didn't stop stammering out excuses for his decision to withdraw his men, Myrddin wasn't going to be able to resist the urge to start pecking at his eyes.

Sir Ywain finished proving himself a pathetic excuse for a man of honor and bowed his way out of the tent. Myrddin fluttered down to the floor.

The king didn't look up from where he was sharpening a dagger. The lines around his eyes were even more pronounced than usual. "You know, when I asked you to send word, I meant for you to send a carrier pigeon, not to turn into a raven and come yourself, Lord Myrddin."

Myrddin let himself stretch back into his more formal shape. The tall, thin man with dark hair and icy blue eyes felt no different to him than any other form, but others seemed to prefer it, and it wouldn't do for someone to see the king talking to a bird. "I seem to recall your majesty once saying something to the effect that if a job is to be done right, it has to be done personally."

The king finally looked up. His sword arm was as strong as ever, and Myrddin would kill any man who said otherwise, but there was a weariness in his eyes that hadn't been there twenty years ago. "And does this job include telling me that your men are too badly needed at home to fulfill your oaths to defend Camelot?" There was a note of defeat in his voice that he'd hidden when he talked to Sir Ywain.

Myrddin's smile was too sharp to be entirely human. It also had too many teeth. "That was what Master Sigan wanted me to tell you."

Master Sigan had always raged whenever Myrddin brought him news he didn't like. His king, on the other hand, looked as is if he had been stabbed for a brief moment before he tried to smile.

"I've asked too much of you in recent years. No man could say you haven't fulfilled your debt to me a hundred times over, but if you want me to formally release you from your oath - "

"You didn't let me finish," Myrddin interrupted. "Master Sigan told me it was time to stop dividing my loyalties." His smile widened. "So I killed him and took over the Shadowlands. I left behind the bare minimum to keep the Seelie out. The rest will be here as reinforcements by tomorrow."

He probably shouldn't take this much pleasure from surprising his king.

"You staged a coup to get me reinforcements," his king said in a strangled voice.

"You're cursed to die at Camlann, my liege. That doesn't mean you have to die there _now_." He paused. "While we're on the subject, I should probably warn you to tell your sentries that about half the reinforcements are undead."

His king laid his dagger down on the table very carefully. "Undead," he repeated.

"They're very effective."

His king sighed, but he was fighting back a smile now. "That's not going to help the rumors that I've a necromancer sworn to me."

"I'm but a shifter, my liege," he said. "Of course, Lord Gawain, on the other hand . . . "

His king shook his head, smile full fledged now. "Only you, Merlin. Only you."

Myrddin cocked his head. "Sire?"

His king waved it off. "A slip of the tongue. My apologies."

It was the same slip of the tongue his king always suffered from when he was tired, concussed, or drugged, but Myrddin allowed him the evasion. Whoever it was his king saw when he wore this form, it seemed to bring him comfort, and Myrddin would never begrudge his king anything, certainly not a little thing like that.

He did wonder, sometimes, who this Merlin had been, and if he had anything to do with the pain that he'd never seen entirely leave his king's eyes.

But whatever the cause, Myrddin always seemed to help, so he asked if he might stay long enough for a meal before flying back to the troops he was leading in.

Sooner or later there'd be a reckoning for Master Sigan's death, and Morgana would lead her glittering Seelie down on them within a week, but he'd done everything he could there. For now, all he could do was try and make his king laugh and hope that somehow, that would be enough.

* * *

 _The Parting_

"Guenevere's gone," Arthur said. His voice was flat. He didn't look like he'd been sleeping.

Merdyn strained inside his wooden prison, but it remained as impenetrable as before. Not even a word of sympathy could escape its groaning in the wind.

"So's Sir Launcelot. Your apprentice is being insufferable about it."

This time the groaning wood was the _perfect_ expression of what Merdyn wanted to say. Arthur almost smiled.

"Galahad means well. He's just a little too eager to defend your memory by pointing out all the times that you were right and I was wrong." Arthur's voice was still too flat. "I should have listened to you, Merdyn. I'm sorry. I suppose I'm getting fatalistic about it all. It's hard to try and make things better when it never changes anything."

This was what happened when Merdyn wasn't there to shake some sense into him. Of course Arthur had changed things! What else did he call uniting all of England under one banner?

Arthur stood and rested his hand against the bark. "It may be a while until I can come see you again, old friend. Gareth and Elyan brought back word that Morgyn's been spotted on the Camlann shore."

pIf he could have moved, Merdyn would have been throwing himself against the bark. Not Camlann! Not against Morgyn! Not without Merdyn stuck here to wait and wait instead of by his king's side to protect him like he should be.

"I'll send Galahad," Arthur promised. "He'll make sure you're not left alone."

Then he turned to walk away.

 _Arthur! No, no, please, no -_

Galahad came. Merdyn wished he hadn't.

He'd have rather never known for sure what had happened than to have been held helpless as Mordred's men rode his student down and left the body to rot in his roots.


	40. Other Side: After

_Sometimes, Things Went Wrong_

The Emrys was supposed to be old, but he was never supposed to be _this_ old. His joints were positively unmanageable these days.

But Arthur still hadn't risen from the lake, and the Emrys had promised to wait for him, so here he was.

"And you had better appreciate this," he grumbled at the lake. "I could be off exploring the New World instead of sitting around on the off chance that you're going to wake up sometime soon and need some explanations."

"Emrys?" Nemine said gently.

Too gently. Just because they'd argued earlier was no reason for her to treat him like glass now.

"I made supper." She held up a bowl of stew. It certainly smelled better than the meals he had to cook for himself every time his student visited the village.

But his magic roiled sickly within him, and he didn't think he could eat a bite. It always got bad near the anniversary of . . . well. The end. Normally it didn't get this bad this quickly, but by now he was resigned to it.

"You have to eat something," she said, eyes pleading.

He could never resist that look.

"Fine," he conceded. He could at least try to keep some down.

She smiled as he took it and started eating, but it faded quickly. She sat next to him on the grass. "Tell me the story again."

Not going to treat him like glass after all, it seemed. "Our people had opposed the Pendragons ever since Uther took the throne," he began. His voice was as past its prime as the rest of him, but he could still tell the story just fine.

"Not that part."

He stalled for a few precious moments by forcing more of the stew down. He could pretend she wanted one of the smaller stories that she'd loved when she was a child. He could start the story about Lance and the grey dragon or the funny one about Lionel and the cursed daisy chain.

But he knew better than to think that was what she wanted now.

"It's late," he tried, setting the bowl aside.

She stopped staring across the lake and turned to face him. "Emrys."

"You've heard it before," he reminded her desperately.

"It needs to be told again. They were our people, Emrys! Has a hundred years really made you forget?"

That was too far. He lurched to his feet. "I am not the one who doesn't remember!" The words echoed with a thread of his old power. Nemine flinched, and he gentled his voice. "You were a child then," he reminded her. "The memories are not so painful for you." To his old eyes she looked like little more than a child now. Thus far, at least, the spells he'd wrought to make sure he wouldn't lose the last of his people held firm.

Nemine was on her feet too. He'd never seen her eyes blazing that fierce. "Tell me. Tell me again how you left them vulnerable to go save your precious king! Tell me again how you abandoned them - "

"They should have been safe!" he roared back. "They - " A stabbing pain shot through his stomach. He wavered.

Nemine grabbed his arm and steadied him, but her nails bit hit into his fragile skin hard enough to draw blood. "Tell me again how your precious Arthur will rise again and make everything right while our people are no more than dust," she hissed.

"Nemine," he said. The word came out half-choked. "Something's wrong."

"All that magic," she said bitterly, "all that magic, and you just use it to wait for him. All the magic of our people left for us and us alone, and all you can think to do with it is wait for a failed king."

The Emrys tried to draw breath to answer, but his throat felt as if it were in a vise. He doubled over.

Nemine let go of his arm and let him fall. He hit the grass hard. He couldn't see it properly. It was just a mass of green.

"Well, you can wait here for the rest of time as far as I'm concerned," she spat. The words sounded very far away. "I'll even keep your grave marker nice and clear so that if that king of yours ever does show up, he'll know right where to find you."

His magic roiled desperately inside him, but he didn't have the breath to say the words to draw it out.

Arthur. Arthur would need him. He had to - He needed to -

"But you meant well, I suppose, and you were good to me." Nemine's words were as faint as the wind. "I won't make you wait to die."

He could just see her kneeling beside him. Something glinted in her hand.

Arth-

* * *

 _Very, Very Wrong_

Sixteen hundred years, he had waited. Sixteen hundred years, and still Arthur didn't return. Apparently, four world wars, untold diseases, and disaster after disaster weren't cause enough for him.

Merlin had taken matters into his own hands.

And Destiny had only allowed him to return twenty years later? Twenty years later, when the only threat was still Merlin and when he was no more of a threat than before?

He hadn't understood. He still didn't understand. There was no reason for Arthur to be here now when he hadn't been before, and the man claiming to be Arthur had made a mistake. He couldn't be the real Arthur.

He _had_ made a mistake, hadn't he? He had mentioned cliffs at the final battle at Camlann, and there hadn't been any of those, had there?

 _Sixteen hundred years,_ part of him whispered. _Sixteen hundred years of hearing twisted versions of that story. Do you really trust your own memory now?_

Merlin leaned against the stone wall and tried not to sob, because he didn't trust anything now. Certainly not his own mind. He knew all too well what tricks it could play.

 _He's gotten everything else right. Are you sure he isn't the real thing?_

No. He couldn't be. He couldn't be, because Merlin had hurt him, and he would never, ever, hurt Arthur, so this couldn't be Arthur, this wasn't Arthur -

He steeled himself and walked back into the cell.

The man that claimed to be Arthur was singing. The old lullaby sounded nothing like it was supposed to in his hoarse and cracked voice, but Merlin knew those words. He knew the faint hint of a tune that managed to worm its way out.

He could barely breathe, but the last few lines came out of their own accord.

"My mother sang that to me," he choked out. "I sang it when - when - "

"When I was dying. Or every other week, in other words. You have a habit of pulling off miracles."

Arthur. Not an imposter, not a lie, not a trick of a straying mind. Arthur.

He had hurt Arthur.

There was no fixing that, not really, but his magic sprang to do the best it could anyway.

Everything blurred into gold as he tried to do everything at once. He didn't realize that he'd done too much and that he was falling until he felt Arthur catch him.

Sixteen hundred years he'd waited for this moment. Sixteen hundred years, and this moment was all he would ever get, because Arthur might catch him on instinct, but that was all he would do. The threat he'd been called back to deal with had been Merlin, after all, and Arthur had always done his duty.

He hoped Arthur would do his duty. He couldn't live through sixty years of watching from a distance as Arthur built everything he had waited for. He didn't want to.

But for this one moment, everything was alright. Arthur was here and alive and apparently too lost in the post magic rush to be busy hating him.

Then that moment passed, and he was pulling away, and Merlin wanted to hold on, but after all he'd done, he knew better than to think that he deserved to.

He forced himself to let go and step away.

Arthur was talking again, and he didn't understand - Any of it, really, and he especially didn't understand the look in Arthur's eyes which seemed almost fond.

But Arthur wanted to go home, and he could do that. He'd have to face the consequences for his mountain of mistakes later, he was sure, but for now he could pretend that all would be well.

And if another threat arose, if Arthur needed him to deal with it . . . Maybe it would work out.

(Problems arose but never anything where Merlin's magic was absolutely essential. Yet somehow, later never arrived.)

* * *

 _Sometimes, Things Could Be Fixed_

Merlinus crouched over Gwenhwyfar. "Here we are again," he said weakly.

"I think I liked the first time better," Gwenhwyfar whispered. A string of coughs followed the words.

"The villa smelled better than the tunnels, that's true," he agreed. "Although there was one time, I found some quite lovely catacombs that smelled of incense."

Gwenhwyfar looked around at the dripping, stinking metal tunnel. The moans of the sick bounced around it. She refrained from commenting on that and instead said, "While we were gone?"

While they were gone. That was one way to describe the endless years he'd spent lying with his body frozen, and his mind free to roam the earth with no one able to see him.

Gwenhwyfar squeezed his hand. Her hands were sweating. "Modred - " She coughed. "Modred has a lot to answer for."

He pushed as much magic as he dared into her. Healing, not poison. He wished he'd known that all along.

Then he forced himself to get to his feet and splash through the fetid water in the center of the tunnel so he could get to the next patient.

The next patient was dead.

It was better than the hospitals, he reminded himself. Any chance was better than none at all.

He pushed himself on to the next and the next and the next -

 _Why, Modred?_

He tried not to think about Modred's answer, the one time he'd dared to ask.

 _Because of you._

This wasn't his fault. He wasn't poisoning them. He never had poisoned them. He was healing thing, helping them. It wasn't his fault.

 _Because of you._

Freya gave him an exhausted smile as she passed him a cup of water. He tried to smile back.

"The burners! The burners!" Gwalchmai burst through the grate at the entrance to the tunnel. "The burners are coming!"

Merlinus spun. "Freya, take - "

Take who? They were worse off than they had been even a week ago. There was a side tunnel they could run down, but there were more than a dozen of them that couldn't run.

"I'm not running," Freya told him, voice shaking.

Gwalchmai set his chin. "I'm not running either."

"You're not a warrior anymore!" Merlinus forced himself not to shout it. "You're eight years old! You can't fight the burners."

"And you're a healer," he pointed out. "You can't fight either."

He could hear the terrible marching footsteps now.

His eyes burned. "Close the grate," he ordered in a choked whisper.

Gwalchmai hurried to fit it back into place. The padlock jangled against it as his shaking hands tried to put it back into place.

The burners came into view.

"Gwalchmai, get back!"

The black weapons were ready, rising, and Gwalchmai was white in the light of their dying flashlights, and he wouldn't get back in time -

The weapons crashed to the floor.

The captain of the burners pushed his way forward. He hadn't bothered with the useless breathing mask. He must have been smart enough to realize the disease spread as Modred and followers wanted it to, not as traditional rules said it should.

Of course he was.

"Artur?" Merlinus called, desperate hope creeping into his voice.

"How about I take your word for this being a plague house this time?" Artur called back.

Merlinus sagged in relief. "As long as you promise not to burn it down."

"No burning," Artur promised. "I've got something a little more effective than that. Kay?"

Kay held up a backpack that clinked when he moved it. "One stolen bag of cures, free today only."

"Congratulations, Kay," Merlinus said in a shaking voice. "You've finally made up for our first meeting."

* * *

 _Sometimes, Not So Much_

The world was quiet.

It didn't like that. Quiet meant no food, and it was very hungry.

The world around it was grey and dull. _Office,_ a long forgotten part of it whispered. _This was your office when you worked for the newspaper._

It often had thoughts like this. It did not understand them. It only wished that there was more color. Color often meant food.

There was a scrap of paper on the floor. It had color. Bright gold and deep blue and something that looked like food, but that it couldn't eat.

 _"Never seen you this excited over a politician before."_

 _"He'll save us all. Just you wait."_

It did not know what it had needed saving from, but it remembered the excitement.

It wasn't sure why it stayed here where there was no food. It should be out looking for some, but the part of it that it did not understand had wanted to run here, and it did not know how to argue with itself.

 _You have to stay away from Arthur until this can be fixed. You remember Arthur, don't you?_

It remembered food that looked like the food in the picture -

 _No! Arthur isn't - No. He's Courage, remember? He's Courage, and you're Magic. You have to use that._

Magic. It liked magic. Magic was a flare of bright gold color. Magic had helped him get food before.

 _It's dangerous out there. There's fire._

It didn't like fire or the nasty round things that the food kept trying to bury in its head, but it had the magic. It would be fine. It had the strange talking part to watch for danger and help keep it safe.

 _I can't keep you inside, can I?_

No. It had to eat today or it wouldn't be strong enough to hunt.

 _Alright, then._ The talking part sounded strange. _Go where I tell you._

It was happy to follow the directions the talking part gave it. The talking part was leading it to food. Perhaps even the food from the picture.

 _Yes. We're going to go see Arthur. He might be able to help._

Help not to be hungry?

 _Not the way you mean, but one way or another, yes._

It did not know there was more than one way not to be hungry, but it trusted the voice.

Even if another little part of itself said that maybe it shouldn't.

* * *

 _Sometimes, Arthur Has Changed_

A fixer of unusual problems, professionally known as the Hawk, known to a few select friends as Merlin, stared down at his illusion stripped hands.

The grey skin of a changeling stared back at him.

Once, in a Camelot he only just now remembered, he had allowed himself that luxury on dark nights when he was alone.

Here, in this modern age, artificial lights screamed down at him even at midnight. Now, reporters had converged on the site like crows after battle, their cameras flashing and catching every last condemning detail.

Every drop of blood on his hands would be displayed on the front page tomorrow. Every shimmer of grey would be uploaded to the net. Every last piece of evidence ready and waiting for the enforcers when they dragged him in.

The pain in his shoulder screamed like the lights, but Arthur was alright. That mattered even more now than it had before. Arthur was alright. The secret he had kept for two lifetimes was out, but his king was alright, and that was all that really mattered now.

Arthur tore his eyes from where Morwena lay dead upon the ground. His eyes widened as he took in his . . . friend? He liked to think they had been friends. Arthur had always been a bit reserved, of course, a bit separate, but that was only natural considering their separate stations -

Arthur ran forward. Merlin only managed to take a half-step back before Arthur was there.

Except he hadn't tackled him to the ground for the enforcers. He hadn't hit him for the lies.

He was . . . hugging him?

Merlin raised his arms hesitantly and awkwardly patted Arthur on the back. "Are you sure you want to be hugging a known changeling in public?" he asked.

"I'm the minister of defense. If I say they're not printing that picture, they're not printing that picture." He let go and scanned Merlin quickly. "Are you hurt?"

"Shoulder, a bit," he said warily. "I was thinking you'd be a bit more upset about this."

Arthur snorted. He looked like he was still on post adrenaline fumes. "You've been a warlock, a prophet, a seer, a magician, and Magic itself. The only thing you could surprise me with at this point was if you weren't magical somehow."

Merlin blinked. "What?"

Arthur grinned. "Later. After the reporters are managed."

Merlin had spent too long hunting down interesting information to let that one go entirely. "I'll hold you to that," he warned.

Arthur was still grinning. "I look forward to it."

* * *

 _Sometimes, Arthur Tells the Truth_

"You know," his king told him, "there's a world where you're Seelie."

Myrddin choked on his cider. He set the glass down hard on the balcony railing. "There's no need to be insulting."

His king raised an eyebrow. "You accept that there are multiple realities without blinking, you accept that my memories has more holes than Swiss cheese with suggestions of magic you can try to fix it, you accept that there are worlds where we've nearly killed each other, but the idea of being Seelie is too much to take?"

"Well, how would you take the news that there was a world where you were on the wrong side?"

"Depends on what I'd already done in it," his king said drily. "It's happened more than once." He looked out over the dark water for a long moment. "You know, I think I'm technically on the wrong side in this one. In every other world, if I've sided with either of the faerie courts, it's been the Seelie."

Myrddin frowned. "Why side with the Unseelie then?"

"Well, the first time I met the Seelie, they were torturing someone," his king pointed out. "It didn't make a great first impression."

Myrddin grimaced. "Seeing as I was the one being tortured, I can't have made all that awe inspiring of the a first impression either."

His king shrugged. "Better than them. Besides. I'm too used to us being on the same side to change it up now."

* * *

 _Sometimes, Arthur Doesn't Remember_

The iron housing of the Undercity wasn't ideal for an alchemist - when things exploded, they had a bad tendency to ricochet off the walls - but it was all Merlin could afford, and he could only afford this by skipping every other meal. Sleeping for a thousand years made it hard to have marketable job skills, particularly when you were lacking an ID number. This was all he could do for now.

There was a market for alchemy, at least, even if Merlin refused to get involved in the more unsavory parts of it. Love potions, poisons, the addictive taste of bottled joy . . . Those he would leave for others. A bit of keep-awake for workers on the never ending assembly lines, however, or a headache reliever for the girl who tried to keep track of the tenement's ever multiplying numbers of children, or a dream sweetener for the empty eyed survivors of the Dust Wars, those he could do. It would pay a lot better if his clients could afford more than spare change and favors, but all he had to do was scrape by until he found Arthur. Once he found Arthur, the rest wouldn't matter as much.

A knock reverberated angrily from the door. It didn't sound like one of his usuals, so Merlin grabbed a nice heavy flask from the shelf before he opened it. Some people wouldn't accept that some things he just wouldn't sell.

He kept the door between him and the hall and had the flask clutched tightly in his hand. It still wasn't enough to keep the flask from falling and shattering on the floor.

"Arthur!" He stepped back immediately to let him in. "How did you find me?"

Arthur's face was wary. "Have a scrying bowl, do you, Mr . . . "

Merlin's heart sank. "Emrys. Mr. Merlin Emrys." He looked at Arthur hopefully.

Arthur didn't so much as blink.

Instead, he pulled a badge out of his long black coat. "I'm Detective Pendragon. Thirteenth Precinct of the Regulators. I got a report that you were running an unlicensed alchemy business." He stepped through the still open door and scanned the room.

Glassware filled the rickety shelves. Three mixtures bubbled over a jury-rigged heating system. The walls were still blackened and dented from past mistakes.

Merlin tried anyway. "Actually, Detective - "

Arthur turned to him, eyebrows raised. "You're really going to try to argue this one? _Really?"_

"I don't think it counts as a business if I'm making less than the average beggar," Merlin said. "it's more of a gift exchange with friends, really."

"And would you care to name those friends?"

"These days, most of my friends are dead," Merlin said quietly. "Or imaginary, apparently."

That threw Arthur for a minute, but he still said, "Right. Hands behind your back, please, Mr. Emrys."

Merlin threw them up in the air instead. "You're arresting me? Really? You come back after a thousand years and the first thing you do is arrest me, you - you prat!"

Arthur grabbed his arms and forced them behind his back. "Been sampling the merchandise, have we?"

"Oh, I'll show you merchandise," Merlin grumbled as he was shoved towards the door. "I've got a potion for donkey ears with your name on it."

"Threatening a Regulator can add up to five years to your sentence," Arthur informed him. "If, however, you would like to give a full accounting of any dangerous substances in your apartment so that they can be properly disposed of - "

"Touch anything in that room and you'll deserve what you get."

Arthur had guided him out the door and around the first corner of the hallway, but he was forced to stop.

The hallway was filled with at least twenty grubby children. Reza was frantically trying to herd them back to the stairs.

"We wanna see! We wanna see!" the kids clamored.

"Excuse me, miss?" Arthur's hand had gone to his weapon. The tenements weren't always kind to Regulators who went in alone.

Of course, normally those tenements were later crushed like empty cans of fizzy pop, but that didn't help whatever Regulator had gotten waylaid inside.

Reza spun and tried to smile. "G-Good morning, Officer. We - we heard there was some trouble about Mr. Merlin?"

Merlin didn't want to think of all the ways this could go bad. "It's nothing, Reza. Just a misunderstanding."

Her eyes darted to his cuffed hands.

"Whatever you think he's done, he hasn't, sir," she told Arthur. "He's always been very kind to the kids. He fixed Ili's cough, and Maggie's lice, and he even got Matty's leg right again. Matty wouldn't have been able to go back to work without him, and half the kids would have died last winter of the Smoke Fever without him - "

"I'm afraid he's not licensed, miss," Arthur said, stone faced.

That look usually meant he wasn't entirely certain he was doing the right thing but didn't see any alternatives. That would have been fine, except feeling like that usually made him angry, and this was the wrong place for him to explode.

Reza bit her lip. "Farid needs his medicine, sir, and Merlin's the only one - "

"Please get out of the way, miss."

"I've got some money," she said desperately. "You could say you couldn't find him - "

"Bail money doesn't work like that," Merlin interrupted before she could get herself arrested for trying to bribe a government official. "And I'm pretty sure bail costs more than what you keep hidden in the closet."

Reza's family's apartment didn't have a closet so much as it was a closet. Merlin, on the other hand, had a tiny closet covered by a grey curtain where he kept the goods that were already mixed up.

Top shelf, blue bottle, he mouthed and hoped that she understood and Arthur wouldn't catch her rummaging for Farid's medicine.

Reza swallowed hard and started pulling children out of the way. "Come on. Clear a path for the officer."

She wasn't crying. Tenement kids didn't cry. She looked like she wanted to, though.

Arthur pushed him on toward the staircase a little harder than was necessary.

"When you get your memory back, you're going to owe me an apology," Merlin informed him. "And you're going to owe all those kids a chicken dinner. A real one, none of this synth stuff."

"If you don't have information to share, don't talk," Arthur growled. His hand was gripping Merlin's arm tight enough to bruise.

Unfortunately for him, babbling was Merlin's coping mechanism, and he had a lot to cope with at the moment. Like Arthur taking him to jail while the kids needed him.

"So now you're telling me to shut up? That brings back all sorts of memories. If your men destroy any of my supplies, you're buying me new ones, by the way. Better ones."

Arthur finally got them to the bottom floor. He all but ripped open the door and shoved Merlin out into the flickering lights of the fading neon signs that were everywhere in this sector of the Undercity.

The rattle-cage was waiting, and it was already overcrowded. People, many of them in desperate need of some sanitizing wipes, were pressed up against the iron bars. Occasionally, the defensive system would flicker back into brief life and send a shock of electricity up them, but there was no way for the people to move back.

"If you put me in that thing, you lose your right to complain when I call you a dollophead," Merlin said flatly. "You lose your right to complain about that for _life."_

Arthur's face was doing that war-between-right-and-duty thing again, but without his memories in place, Merlin already knew which would win.

"Gawain, come out here and help me with this one. I don't want anyone getting out while I'm putting him in."

The driver hopped off the box and patted the automated horses attached to the rattle-cage as he dodged around them. He had an electrified baton in his other hand.

Merlin glared at him. "You're also going to owe me an apology. And a new box of tea, because you and dollophead here are the reason mine is currently burning upstairs."

Gawain stood guard as Arthur shoved Merlin into the wagon. It took some effort. Merlin was pressed between a sobbing woman with dilated eyes and a heavily bruised brawler who looked like he might be bleeding out. Merlin didn't have room to do anything but press especially hard against his arm and hope the pressure would slow the bleeding.

" _Two_ boxes of tea!" he shouted as the rattle-cage started up again. "And a new shirt!"

* * *

 _Sometimes, Merlin Doesn't_

The man with hair as gold as the medals on his uniform was back again today. Mersan was glad to see him. If the man had time to be here, than the dragons weren't attacking the fort again, and that always helped him sleep a little better. One of the healers had cast a spell on his room when she realized how much hearing the alarm bell upset him, but he'd rather be upset now and then when the alarm rang than constantly sit wondering if fire was about to come down from the roof and roast them all.

He'd tried to tell her this, but his throat was too badly burned for the words to come out quite right, and his hands shook too badly these days for him to write. If she'd been a druid, he could have just told her mind to mind, but the druid healers were too busy with the freshly wounded to come see him. The nurse was just an ordinary caster, so she'd just straightened the blankets and told him not to worry about a thing.

She meant well, Mersan supposed, but he'd been fighting too long not to worry about how they were doing fighting without him, even if they'd been doing it for a decade now.

The man was talking. Mersan tried to pay attention, but the names the man said slid in and out of his head like water.

Water. Now there was a thought. He was thirsty again, but it felt like far too much work to reach over and try to grab the bell for the healer.

But the man had already risen and was pouring him a glass. Mersan smiled. That was another nice thing about the man. He always seemed to know what Mersan wanted or what he was trying to say. Maybe he had a bit of druid blood in him.

"The dragons have fallen back," the man said as he handed over the water. Mersan perked up. Dragons, at least, he still had a clear memory for. "I think we'll have a quiet winter, although I wouldn't be surprised if they attacked one last time before the snows set in, just for spite."

Mersan nodded in agreement. Maybe not something as blatant as a physical attack, but some sort of nasty magic would be just what they'd do.

"Magic on the water supply, perhaps?" the man suggested. "The charms you put up on that are still holding strong, but if our spellcasters have a hard time believing it, I bet their mages will too."

That was good to hear. Nice to know he was still doing something for the war effort, even if the actual action had taken place long before. Maybe he'd still get to surprise the dragons one last time in his old age. What was their old general's name? Mersan had given him more than one scar, but the old bat had more than returned the favor by putting him in this bed. It would be nice to give him one last nasty shock.

"General Aithgrave," the man supplied. That name, at least, would stick for awhile in Mersan's brain. Maybe not through the night, but for a few hours at least. "If he tries for the water supply, your countercharms will get him, I'm sure. And if he doesn't . . . " A gleam entered the man's eyes. "I've got our spellcasters working on something. Come spring, I think the dragons will have to find themselves a new general."

It hurt to smile, but Mersan did it anyway.

The healer poked her head into the room. "High General Arthur, you asked me to remind you when it was time for the war council."

The man stood. "Of course. Just a moment, please."

The healer nodded and headed on.

The man peered out the door to make sure she was gone before heading back. "Look," he said. "I know it bothers you that you don't know when the bells are ringing, so I got one of the druids to make you this." He pulled a tiny bell out of his pocket and buried it under the edge of Mersan's pillow. "Whenever the main bell goes off, this one will too. Even if there isn't room for it to properly ring."

The healer wouldn't have understood Mersan's strangled attempt to say thank you, but the man had never needed something as awkward as words.

* * *

 _Once, Merlin Remembered Everything_

Technically, his name was Magic. He contained the whole of magic, and it was all that he ever would be.

During the war, however, Courage had taken to calling him Merlin after the bird he turned into once when he needed a disguise.

There was more to the story than that, but it had been rather embarrassing, so he tried to pretend the even that had given him the name had never happened while holding onto the good memories wrapped up in that kind of camaraderie.

The lamp was a lonely place, after all. There was comfort in calling himself Merlin and remembering what it had meant.

He could see his other selves, sometimes. He laughed when he realized how the name followed him. Destiny's idea of a joke, perhaps, but if it was, he didn't mind.

He might be a bird in a cage, but he was a bird all the same, and one day he would find a way to fly again.

Courage, though, Courage was a bear. Certainly in the mornings, Merlin had once joked, even though they didn't need sleep.

It was a less of a joke to their enemies. He'd live and let live right up until he was wounded and angry or you got too close to someone he was protecting.

The mama bear and cubs analogy was obvious, but since that one wasn't really flattering to anyone involved, it didn't get used much.

Still. A bear. A rabid one when angered, and that had earned him war name. Arthur had meant bear in the language they used then, so Arthur he had become. It was too embedded in everyone's memories, foe and friend alike, for anyone to ever name a baby shard of Courage anything else.

Merlin watched a wounded Arthur rampage across the multiverse they had inadvertently created and felt sorry for the enemies he faced that weren't shards. They had no idea what they were poking with a stick.

Arthur was a wounded bear, and he would sooner rip out the throat of the one who had wounded him than lie down and die.

It was harder to find Death's incarnations. Her name wasn't constant. Still, she was never far from the shards of Merlin and Arthur, so he always knew where to start.

Someday, he would fly again. Someday, he would see his favorite sister again. Someday, Arthur would make his way to this reality.

Someday. But right at this moment, someone was summoning him from his lamp.

A moment where he was stretched into a thousand directions and then -

Merlin emerged from his lamp and gave an elaborate bow. "Who is it that has summoned me from my lamp?"

He was in a treasury, he realized. That was at least a hint.

So was the crown on the head of the man who was holding his lamp.

"I am King Constans," the man said with narrowed eyes. "What are you?"

What, not who, Merlin processed with a sinking heart. This wasn't going to end well.

Someday, he promised himself. It might not be destined, but he was sure of it anyway. They would fix this, sooner or later. It might even be sooner.

After all, Constans was an ancestor of Arthur's in more reality than one.


	41. Every Virtue, Every Vice

**A/N: Part of my Shards universe. Also part of my Twelve Days of Christmas self-set challenge. This one was "Four P.O.V.s."**

* * *

 _Courage:_

Merlin is old.

Arthur knew that already, of course, he's been fighting the man for years, but it didn't really hit him until just now. Merlin is far older than him, and the way he coughs and strains for breath after hammers the blow in even harder.

It's only Arthur's third life. He's barely accepted that he's not crazy. He can't accept that this time he might outlive Merlin.

"You don't look well," he manages. Merlin looks like a starving bear not yet incapable of lashing out.

"You look the same as ever. And that's not a compliment."

Long practice keeps the relief off his face, but it's a near thing.

Still his Merlin. Whatever else has changed, that hasn't.

Arthur hopes it never will.

* * *

 _Strength:_

Gawain doesn't talk about the dreams. They're confused things that contradict each other anyway, but they disrupt his sleep until it's all he can do to get through a day.

They're just dreams, he tells himself firmly, just a souvenir from the Dust Wars.

Then they arrest a crazy alchemist whose rants match his dreams point for point.

Gawain makes his way to the holding cell, a grate covered hole in the wall in a room honeycombed with them. He has to use the sliding ladder to reach Merlin Emrys' cell, but the moans of the other prisoners mask the screech.

"Twenty-four meals to make up for this recycled garbage, a place to stay if my apartment's been rented out, a set of earplugs, three full nights of sleep . . . " Merlin is curled up in a corner and still reciting the list he began upon being arrested. The monotonous ramble blocks out the worst of the other noises.

His eyes fly open. "Sir Gawain."

"Detective," he corrects, except -

Except for the dreams. So he adds, "Unless you want me to start calling you Lord Alchemist again.."

"You remember," Merlin breathes.

"Some." He hesitates. Part of him wants to get Merlin out of here and run. Part of him just wants to get out of here. "If I wanted to remember more, what would I do?"

Merlin grins. "You'd mix up the recipe I'm about to give you. And once you're sure it's safe, you'd also slip some to the prat."

* * *

 _Vengeance:_

He isn't Merlin when he comes to the prison he's created for her. He's magic itself, and that lends weight to this tale of Destiny and shards he spins.

"We were allies once, Morgana," he tells her. "Destiny fears what we could accomplish together, so she's played us against each other."

She still wants justice for all that's been done to her people, but perhaps - Perhaps -

"If my true form is broken, can you fuse me back together?"

"It will hurt," he warns.

She stares at him in disbelief for a long moment, thinking of everything she's paid without a moment's hesitation. She can't help it. She laughs.

Merlin laughs with her, somewhat hysterically, until neither can breathe. "More than usual," he corrects himself. "More than anything."

Not more, Morgana thought, than what Destiny would feel.

* * *

 _Death:_

"Last time we fought, we splintered the universe," Death reminded Magic. "What do you think will happen this time?"

He looked out at the glittering arm of reforged shards. "Even more multiverses?" he suggested. "Cheer up. Whatever happens, I'm sure you'll still be needed."

Death smacked him.


	42. True Love's Kisses

**A/N: Another day of my Twelve Days of Christmas stories, also set in the Shards 'verse.**

* * *

Technically, every time Gwen kissed someone it was true love's kiss, depending on how you handled the semantics. She was Love, or romantic love to be more precise, so if you defined "true" as "genuine," then all her kisses were true love's kiss.

But there was the kind of kiss she gave Magic, sudden and after a magical sleep like a fairy tale, the kind she gave Chivalry, sizzling with passion after endless longing glances and quests to prove himself, and then there was the kind she gave Courage. Slow, lingering, a little bit forbidden, after they'd both worked themselves up to it. The kind that broke spells and built legends.

There was another kind that she saved for Courage too. Quick, everyday ones that lasted a second but made her smile while she worked in a world where they lived in camps. Quiet ones pressed to his brow in a world where it increased the chances of her catching the illness that wasn't killing him but that was making him miserable. Half defiant kisses in a world where their lips tasted like the ashes that were all around them but where they tried to build something anyway.

Each memory came back to her in searing light as Magic forged her back together. She screamed as the white hot blaze ripped through her.

But when it was done, she was Gwen, Gwenhwyfar, Guinevere, Jennifer, Guanhamara, Genivieve -

All of them. Every last one of them. Not separate and divided but one. Strictly herself again with no strings for Destiny to pull.

There was power running through her now, power enough to take on near anything, or so it felt.

Magic - well, Merlin, really, he'd always be Merlin - stood panting but triumphant at the edge of the circle. He looked haggard from the strain and the screams, but he managed a smile.

Arthur had been beside him, but he was already running, and Gwen rose to meet him.

The first kiss was True Love's and Courage's, shimmering with power that was almost magic and that belonged in a legend all its own.

The second one was Gwen and Arthur's, and it was nothing countless couples hadn't shared.

It felt like coming home.


	43. Not the First

Uther is not an utter fool, for all he is currently acting like one. He knows to expect a trick.

But this is not the first time books have been burned in Camelot.

Geoffrey has two stacks waiting. The first, he explains, are spellbooks to be burned. The second are volumes for identifying and fighting magic.

Uther burns the first and locks up the second with grim tolerance.

The stacks of books had seemed enormous. Off their shelves with their telltale gaps, it's impossible to see that Geoffrey's assistant Bedivere had fled with three or that Gaius had pressed one into Balinor's hands. It's impossible to know that two rows are preserved in the secret hidden chamber along with the hastily made copies Geoffrey and his assistants have been compiling since the warning signs began.

The books are left to collect dust, but they are there.

It is not the first time they have burned books in Camelot.

* * *

 **A/N: Yummypie913 requested something about Geoffrey. I hope this counts.**

 **BooksAreMedicine, I have not forgotten your request. In fact, I have an idea for it.**

 **I also have an essay and a short speech due, but I do have an idea, so there's a good chance it'll actually get written.**


	44. For the Whole World to See

**A/N: To fulfill BooksAreMedicine's request.**

* * *

They were outnumbered. Sir Kai didn't know by how much, but he knew it was bad.

There was a sorcerer. An old man up on the rocks. Sir Kai knew in his bones they were about to die.

He fought anyway. It was only two opponents later that he realized the lightning wasn't directed at them.

And the man was no longer old.

* * *

The second he loosed the first lightning strike, Merlin knew this wasn't going to work. He needed power and precision, and he couldn't have that _and_ an aging spell. Not yet, at least.

Gaius was going to kill him, but - Arthur needed him.

Merlin discarded the guise of the old man. In full view of the knights of Camelot, he was just himself.

And something - clicked.

He could feel where to strike the ground to open it. He could force the wind into a point to send the Saxons flying. He could slow time like he hadn't for yeras and pick them off at his leisure.

He could see Mordred. He could see Mordred forcing his way toward Arthur.

He could stop that with one well placed bolt.

 _Son of earth and sea and sky -_

The magic wasn't in the books. It wasn't in a corner of his mind. It wasn't _in_ him at all.

It _was_ him.

Merlin shouted as he called down fire on the fleeing Saxons. He looked around for more.

There were none.

Merlin lowered his arms. He felt _exhilarated_. It had been easy. Like now that he had fully embraced his destiny, it had fully embraced him. He could do this forever. He could -

The smell hit him. So did the realization of what he'd done.

Merlin threw up.

"So you're the great Emrys," Morgana said from behind, voice shaking with rage and dripping with mockery.

Power surged out of him as he turned.

* * *

There was a thin path that led up the cliff. Arthur ran for it.

He'd been in the thick of the fighting when the lightning hit. He'd assumed it was Morgana and fought on grimly until he realized the corpses weren't in Camelot armor.

That was when he'd risked a glance up.

Merlin.

But - Not Merlin. Not Merlin, who hated hunting. Not Merlin, who looked sick at every execution. Not Merlin.

Like there had been Not-Gaius when the goblin escaped. Like when Cornelius Sigan had possessed that sycophantic servant.

Not Merlin, Arthur had realized in horror. That was why Merlin had been acting so oddly. Not Merlin at all, not Merlin in control at least.

Not Merlin, but Merlin was right there, a giant target, so Arthur ran.

Not Merlin. He wasn't losing Merlin.

He was tired from the battle, but he made it to the top in time to see Morgana facing off against whoever stolen Merlin.

The air felt charged. The ground was scorched.

And he couldn't let Morgana kill Merlin, no matter who was possessing him.

Morgana started to turn -

Arthur's sword bit through her chest. Right through the heart.

She fell.

It was done. After all these years and all this death, she was gone.

But Merlin was still here. Merlin could still be saved.

Arthur raised his sword. "Get out of him." His voice was admirably level, considering it came out through gritted teeth.

Not-Merlin faltered. "Arthur, it's me."

"Don't try that with me," Arthur growled. "Get _out_ of him, whatever you are."

Not-Merlin raised his hands and stepped forward. Arthur tensed. "My mother's name is Hunith. The first time we met, you were throwing knives at someone's head. You gave me your mother's sigil." He stopped just outside the reach of the sword. "I - I know you're angry. You shouldn't have had to find out like this, but - But I only use the magic for you, Arthur. I've stuck with you through everything. You know that."

And that - That look was pure Merlin, but it didn't make sense. It didn't add up. "Merlin told me magic had no place in Camelot."

Possibly-Merlin winced. "Mordred was destined to kill you. I had to look at the bigger picture."

Arthur's arm wavered. That shouldn't be Merlin. That should never have had to be Merlin.

But thinking back on the past few years, he couldn't say it wasn't.

And Merlin was still talking. Talking about a light in a cave and magic pinned on Will. Talking about other things that hadn't added up. Talking so fast it all blurred together.

Babbling, in other words.

Definitely Merlin.

Arthur sheaved Excalibur. It was only then it occurred to him that just because the sorcerer was Merlin didn't mean the sorcerer wasn't dangerous, but -

Merlin had relaxed, shoulders slumping inward. "I think I can help the wounded. The magic's all up and kind of bubbly. I think it wants to be used. I mean, assuming you're okay with this now. You are, aren't you?" he asked anxiously.

Arthur wasn't. He really, really wasn't.

But his only other option was to replay Morgana's story all over again, and he couldn't bear to do that.

"Less talking, more walking," he said. "Gaius will be worried." So would Gwen and the knights.

He still wasn't okay with this.

But he would be.

* * *

 **A/N: Not entirely happy with this, but it's as good as it's going to get.**


	45. Empty Chairs

**A/N: Title from Le Mis.**

* * *

Sir Ector's family was about as magical as cold hard steel, but his French wife, well, that was a different story. Marie was new to Camelot when the Purge started, though, and Sir Ector's castle was remote. The servants had been in the family for generations. No one said a word about how the flames reached for Lady Marie or how the fire in her grate needed no help to keep from growing cold.

The nurse _did_ say something after little Kay was born and then learned to walk, but she said something only because his chubby hands were always pink with small burns.

"I keep him away from the fire, I do," she cried.

"Nonsense," Marie said, "no one could. You're an impatient little one, aren't you?" She picked up the pouting toddler and spun him around. Sir Ector smiled, but he worried too.

King Uther came to visit with his son when Arthur was seven. "Why are your hands burned?" Arthur demanded of the younger boy.

"See!" Kay said eagerly. A tiny golden dragon burned above his hand, the heat a bit too close.

The guards saw too and so did Uther. They saw Kay, and they saw his mother storming forward with eyes of gold.

Kay's hands weren't the only things that burn.

* * *

Galahad copied out the books dutifully and watched in awe as others illuminated the letters.

He dimly remembered parents, but they were gone now. His whole town was gone, destroyed in the wars.

He wanted to leave to fight evil and do great deeds, but the news travelers brought concerned him.

How could he fight evil when there was no one worth fighting for?

And there was so much good he could do right here.

* * *

The bounty hunters came when Beaufils was ten, he thought. It was hard to keep track. But he thought he was ten, and he knew his mother was sick and had been for a week.

"Here's a wild one," Halig said. Beaufils stared at him. He'd never seen a grown man before. He wasn't sure he liked him.

"He'll do," the other man said, grabbing his arm. "We'll say they ran away from the fires. Living out in the woods like this, maybe they even did."

Beaufils tugged uselessly in his grip. "What fires?"

Halig grinned. "The ones they burn witches on, boy."

"But I don't have magic," he protested. He recognized magic from his mother's stories. "Mama doesn't either."

Halig snorted. "Looking like you do, no one will believe that."

* * *

Bors took care of Ywain. That was how it was supposed to be. Bors took care of Ywain.

Until the dragon broke free.

* * *

Tristan's father had been important in some little kingdom once. That was before Uther had overrun it in his quest to claim the throne, of course.

Tristan thought it was just as well. He and Isolde weren't cut out for the life of the "nobility."

But it had broken his father, so he hated Uther for it all the same.

* * *

Gwaine didn't talk about his brothers. Not Gareth and especially not Gaheris.

To be fair, he hardly remembered Gareth. He'd been too young when Gareth had marched off to war. Too young when they all realized he was never coming back.

But Gaheris - Gaheris had was his half-brother, really, but that had never mattered to Gwaine. Gaheris had been his little brother.

Had been until - Until he'd turned thirteen and became convinced he was in love with Lynet. Until the village had been hit with a drought and became convinced Lynet was a witch. Until they went to stone her and found her and Gaheris laughing in a dry streambed.

And Gwaine was too late.

Merlin was Lynet's kind of odd. Merlin was small and scrawny and looked like Gaheris.

Gwaine didn't care how high and mighty he was supposed to be now. This time he wasn't going to be too late.

* * *

 **A/N: A lot of the knights are based on their _Squire's Tales_ incarnations. **

**The show left out a lot of knights, and I didn't come close to listing them all here, but I wanted to write something that addressed that. Where are the other knights? Well, the obvious answer is the Purge kept them all away in various ways, leading to various empty chairs at the Round Table.**

 **Alternate title: In Which Uther Ruins Everything**


	46. Something Gold Can Stay

**A/N: I have decided to push myself in honor of the upcoming holiday. I'm going to forgo my usual practice of avoiding ships and try to write fourteen shorts at least tangentially related to romance/love/hearts/etc. So far I've written three, two mainly fluffy and one very . . . Not.**

 **The title for this one came from Robert Frost's poem "Nothing Gold Can Stay." With one obvious change, of course.**

* * *

It was winter when she found him. The kind of winter where even the village children no longer cared for the snow and where the adults looked at the pitiful stocks of food and the distant spring and felt dread join hunger in gnawing at their bellies.

The winter had already claimed many of the elders, including her parents. It was just Hunith in their small hut now, Hunith with her shaking arms that couldn't carry enough firewood, Hunith with nothing but a small pot of gruel to eat every day.

And now there was a strange man sitting outside her door.

The snow was stirred up around him. He looked more like he'd collapsed there than chosen the spot. His hair was as tangled as a wild man's, and his eyes look lost as he stared down at the burns on his bare hands like he couldn't believe they were there.

Strange and wild, like the rumors coming over the border. Stranger still for the furs that wrapped around him and marked him as someone of note.

Hunith shivered in her own thin cloak.

The man started as if only just realizing she was there. "Is this - is this your house?" he asked hoarsely.

She forced herself to nod and wished that someone would brave the venting cold to come see what was happening.

The man looked at the door and then back to her, eyes desperate. "Could I - just for the night - Gaius said - "

 _Gaius?_ Her eyes went wide at the mention of her uncle.

Her parents were dead. It wouldn't be proper to let the man in.

And it was winter. The kind of winter where she couldn't afford to be kind.

But that was her father's voice talking, and her father was dead now, so she said, "I'll get the fire going," and she held the door open for him to stumble in.

Whatever life had animated him outside disappeared quickly. He ate what she handed him and slept where she pointed. He didn't say another word for a week.

When she handed him the axe, though, he came back with wood, and he watched her with the animals until he knew what to do. She started talking to fill the silence, simple stories about the village, and when that failed to get a reaction, she took to singing as they worked. It distracted her from the others' looks, and her guest always came to a closer semblance of life when she did.

She was humming as she ladled out the gruel for dinner when he finally came back from wherever he'd gone in his head.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

She jumped, but she smiled at him quickly.

He didn't seem to notice. He was studying the hut with pinched eyebrows, like he'd never seen it before.

It made her uncomfortable to think he was judging the meagerness there, so she spoke to break the silence. "You never told me your name."

He looked back at her, put a hand on his chest, and made a gesture that was almost a bow. "Balinor, my lady."

"Hunith," she corrected.

"Gaius's niece."

She nodded and sat. "Is my uncle likely to send more strange men down to a sit in the snow outside my house?"

Balinor threw back his head and laughed, far longer than the words deserved.

"I have given up guessing what is likely," he told her, and Hunith could not argue with that.

* * *

It was spring before she gathered the courage to ask him why he kept staring at the parchment he always pulled out when they sat by the fire.

He glanced up before looking away from her into the flames, the way he sometimes did. "I'm trying to see what I missed."

She gathered her daring and said, "If you teach me to read, maybe I can find it for you."

He looked at her, startled, and then he smiled. "It might take a while," he warned.

"So did teaching you to milk a cow," she shot back, and Balinor laughed.

* * *

It was late spring before he handed her the parchment. She looked down at it, eyes eager for words that hadn't been marked into dust or dirt.

She wasn't familiar with all of the words, but she made it all the way to the end. When she had, she looked up, staring him down like he was one of the boys who threw mud at passerby.

"Something stand out?" he asked.

"Mainly words like _'King Uther'_ and _'dragon_ ' and _'Lord_ Balinor.'" She had guessed some, but not this.

He flinched and looked away. "I've put you in danger by being here," he admitted. "If you want me to go . . . "

"The only place I want you to go is to get more firewood," she said tartly, and that was that.

* * *

It was midsummer when he said, "All I have left, I brought with me. But I was hoping - I wondered - "

She put down the bucket of water from the well and waited for him to get to the point.

Balinor looked at her hopefully.

"I'm not your dragon," she reminded him. "I can't read your mind."

That startled a laugh out of him. "It's not quite like that," he told her, "it's more like - But that's not the point." He took a deep breath. "Will you marry me?"

She turned away for a moment and braced herself against the table. She had to, if she was going to keep him from seeing her face. "You don't have to," she said evenly. "If this is because of all the talk in the village, you don't have to."

She wanted to, more than anything, but men who had letters from kings did not marry village women, no matter what those letters had led to.

He touched her shoulder hesitantly, and she almost wanted to laugh that this man who had seen courts could still be almost shy. "I don't know what they've been saying," he admitted, and there was a touch of protective anger in his voice. "For some reason they haven't wanted to say it to my face. But I would like to marry you, Hunith. If you'll have me."

This sort of thing didn't happen, but the rumors all said the world had gone mad, so why not?

She nodded.

* * *

It was two days later, and five days before the headman was to marry them, that the dragon landed just outside the village.

They were in the fields when it happened.

Everyone ran. Even Balinor.

Of course, Balinor ran _towards_ it, and Hunith hesitated only a moment before she followed behind.

"Kilgharrah!" she heard him shout.

The words he said after that were fierce and snarled and sounded like the words of the dragon tongue he had whispered to her. She didn't know what they meant, but she saw the way he leaned into the dragon, and she saw the way the dragon curled protectively around him.

She watched and waited, anxiety boiling within her, until Balinor jogged back, bewildered joy and grief mingling on his face.

"Uther's dead," he said blankly. "Kilgharrah said that Tristan du Bois killed him. He's been made regent for the prince. The Purge is over."

She wasn't Balinor. She didn't know this king except for the grief he had caused the man she loved, so Hunith's delight was pure. She gripped his arms and smiled at him, happier than she could remember being. "You're safe, then. You're safe."

Balinor smiled back, but his eyes went down to his hands, still scarred from their burns. "He's fooled me once before," he said. "I have to - I have to be sure, Hunith."

She didn't understand his expression for a moment until it finally hit her. "You have to go."

He gripped her arms tighter. "I'll come back," he promised.

She forced a smile. "Go. Be safe."

He kissed her, face shining with relief. "I'll come back," he promised again.

She nodded mutely and watched him go.

If this Kilgharrah was wrong, then he was flying straight into danger, and he might not return.

If he was right, then Balinor was nobility once again.

And nobles didn't marry villagers.

* * *

The days after that were long. The hut was too quiet without Balinor's barking laugh, and she'd forgotten how hard the work was when she had to do it alone.

And she'd never been quite as alone as she was now. She hadn't cared much that Balinor had made her an outcast when he was there. They had known that the village gossip wasn't true, and that had been all that mattered.

It was different when she was alone, but the fields needed tending and cows needed milking, and she wasn't a noble lady who could sit and cry about it all day.

If she had been a noble lady, she wouldn't have had to.

And she had more food to herself now, and, and -

She sang to herself so she could ignore the way the others muttered about her instead of to her, and she traced her letters in the dirt every evening. She would save up and buy parchment so she could send a letter to Gaius. He could tell her what had happened, at least, so she didn't have to wonder.

If she cried at night, in the bed that Balinor had always insisted she take after he had woken up from that strange fog, well, that was no one's business but her own.

* * *

She didn't count the days after he left. That would have meant she anticipated something, and all she anticipated was eventually having enough stored by to trade for a single sheet of parchment, a bit of ink, and a quill.

She didn't know how many days it had been. She just knew it was midday and hot, and that her ragged dress was covered with dirt and sweat when the terrified cry went up again.

"Dragon!"

The other villagers didn't run this time. They waited nervously in the field, not sure if this time would go as well as the last.

Hunith ran.

Kilgharrah had landed in the same place as last time. He turned to look at her when she came into view, and she could see him considering her, weighing her.

Balinor didn't wait for that. He slid off the dragon's back and ran towards her.

He was in new clothes now, not her father's old ones that she'd adjusted for him when it grew too hot for his winter clothes. The clothes were died rich blue and trimmed in silver, and she was suddenly aware that she didn't even know what to call that kind of fabric. What business did she have touching it?

If Balinor sensed her hesitation, he didn't share it. As soon as he reached her, he picked her up and twirled her around, his whole face alive with wild joy.

Balinor - quiet, so frequently uncertain or awkward Balinor who had taken months to really talk to her - was falling over his own words in the rush to get them out. She understood some of it - female relatives thought dead now come out of hiding, dragonlord lines thought died out that might still have hope, eggs found and ready to be called forth and the dragons might yet be saved - And other bits meant nothing to her, for what did she know of priestesses and regents, alliances with some placed called Catha or the Isle of the Blessed?

But he was happy, so she was happy, and she could ask her questions later.

"Our traditional hall was burned, but they're rebuilding it now, and there's a place for us at the citadel regardless," he said, and -

"Us?"

Uncertainty marred his face for the first time. "You'll come, won't you?"

"Your family," she said hesitantly, "the court . . . I'm not a lady, my lord. Surely they'll object."

"Balinor," he insisted, pressing his hands to her either side of her face. "My family doesn't care, and I told the regent I was marrying you whether we got to live in Camelot's court or had to move to Cenred's."

"A threat he took most seriously when he realized I intended to go with him," Kilgharrah said dryly. "Although I would have appreciated a warning first."

"I gave you warning, you old lizard," Balinor said, laughing. "It's not my fault you thought I was exaggerating."

The dragon sniffed, but his eyes seemed amused. "If you do not come, he will be unbearable all the way back," he informed her. "In view of all the suffering that has already occurred this year, have pity on us both and agree. It will ease the coming of destiny."

She blinked at the last bit, but Balinor just seemed exasperated, so she let it go.

"If I am riding a dragon with you back to Camelot, you have to introduce me to him properly first," she told him firmly.

That much of their courtship would be done properly, at least.


	47. It Need Not Wither Yet

**A/N: Sequel to Something Gold Can Stay.**

* * *

When Morgana was five, her parents took her and her sister to the capital for the first time. Morgause was to go to the Isle of the Blessed for training after that, but Morgana was too young to worry about that. She was far more interested in the boys she'd seen playing with wooden swords in the courtyard.

"I want to play," she announced as she marched up to them.

The boys looked at each other. "You can be the princess," the golden haired one suggested. "We can fight to rescue you!"

Morgana frowned. "Why can't the princess fight?"

"Because we don't have another sword," the boy said like it was obvious.

She was about to stomp on his foot and grab his when the other boy piped up. "I can make you one. Look!" He scurried away to the bushes and bulled a couple of twigs free. He held them across each other.

Morgana glared. She was just about to protest that it wasn't a _good_ sword when the boy murmured a couple of words and the sticks came together and swelled until they formed a perfect wooden sword, even if it _was_ green.

The boy grinned at her and handed it to Arthur. "Now Arthur can knight you with it," he said proudly.

That was much more satisfactory, especially when the knighting was done and she got to join in their battle. Merlin, the boy who'd made her sword, told her they were all knights for Camelot but they'd been cursed not to recognize each other and had been tricked into fighting. It sounded like a very good story to her which made up for the fact that Merlin wasn't very good with his sword. Arthur was very good, she decided, and he told her she was good too, so she forgave him for trying to make her be the princess.

When she told her father the story later, he burst out laughing. Her mother looked almost concerned.

"If you married him, you wouldn't have to just be a princess," her father teased her. "You could be a queen."

Morgana considered this. "I'd rather marry Merlin," she said. "He made me this, look." She showed off her new sword.

"Very nice," her father approved.

Her mother seemed happier with this idea. "They say he's Emrys, you know. He'd be a very suitable choice."

Her father choked. "For goodness' sakes, Vivienne, the child's only five!"

"Never too soon to be planning," she said serenely.

Morgana wasn't sure how she felt about that, so she snuck away and tore twigs off the bushes. It took her till the end of the trip there, but by the end of it, she was able to present Merlin with a sword that she'd made herself.

* * *

When she was twelve, her father died, and her mother brought her back to the citadel.

She knew who her playmates were now. She curtsied politely to them both in the receiving hall and then went to find a place to hide. She ended up curled in a window sill, half hidden by the curtains.

She didn't want to hear the pitying comments when people saw her black dress. She didn't want to see her mother begin the process of making a "strategic alliance." She didn't want to be tested by the priestesses for a position on the Isle.

She wanted her father back.

Failing that, she wanted to at least be allowed to ride, long and hard till all the pain vanished. She wanted to scream and watch the windows shatter with the force of it. She wanted to burn something.

A little dragon formed out of dust and scurried up her dress into her lap. She reached out a tentative finger. It hopped up onto it and curled around it, smiling toothily in satisfaction.

She looked up to see Merlin standing a few feet away. He was biting his lip, looking nervous, but he flashed her an idiotically wide grin when he saw her looking at him.

She scrubbed her eyes furiously. "What do you want?" she demanded.

"Arthur's stuck in lessons for another hour," Merlin told her. "It's the perfect timing."

She frowned. "To do what?"

Merlin grinned wickedly. "To try out my new color changing spell on all his clothes. Come on. Mum made me promise not to turn Kilgharrah pink again, but she didn't say anything about Arthur's new jacket."

Her mother would be horrified.

Morgana pushed herself off the windowsill. She offered her hand. Merlin grabbed it, still grinning, and they started running towards the soon-to-be king's rooms.

* * *

She refused to go to the Isle, despite her sister's urging, so her mother dragged her home with her and her new husband.

Morgana exchanged letters with both of them after that. Her first letter to Arthur started formal and polite, turned witty and biting in the middle, and accidentally revealed her loneliness at the end. Her letter to Merlin was much the same, only at the end of it, she drew a picture of a dragon, and she breathed magic on it to make it fly.

The letters flew as quick as they could after that, and with magic involved at both ends, it was a rare day they didn't speak.

* * *

When she was sixteen, she convinced her mother to let her spend a season or two at court.

Her first ball was a resounding success. She danced with both Merlin and Arthur, and everyone wanted to dance with her after that.

She still ended up sneaking out onto the balcony with the others. The three of them leaned against the railing and watched the adults below.

"Your parents are nice," Morgana told Merlin quietly.

Arthur nodded in agreement, something dark in his eyes. Reading between the lines in his letters, Merlin's parents had ended up more or less raising Arthur.

Merlin beamed at them both. "Thank you."

"Your uncles are awful," she told Arthur flatly.

Arthur grimaced. "Tristan is . . . competent."

"Not at hiring assassins, he's not," Merlin said with fake cheer.

Arthur scrubbed a hand over his face. "Proof, Merlin," he said wearily. "We need proof."

Merlin muttered something she was pretty sure was, "Who needs proof when you've got dragons," but she politely ignored it.

He changed the subject quickly in any case. "While we're pronouncing judgement on families, your mother scares me," he informed her.

Arthur snorted into his cup. "Griffins? Fine. Enemy knights? No problem. Poison? He laughs and drinks it. But mothers with marriageable daughters?"

Morgana felt the blood rise to her face.

"She didn't."

"She did," Merlin said sheepishly. "Not that I'm opposed to marrying you," he added hastily. He winced. "And I'm not - I didn't mean - "

He was blushing bright red. Morgana laughed and tried not to think about the thoughts shivering in the back of her mind. "What about Arthur? How does he deal with matchmaking mothers?"

Arthur groaned. "I've had to fight off three love potions in the last year."

Morgana raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "How? I thought you had to kiss your true love to do that."

"He did," Merlin said cheerily. "He kissed Gwen."

"Merlin," Arthur growled.

Morgana racked her mind for a Gwen. Only one option came up. "Not - Not the maid I've been assigned? That Gwen?"

Arthur squared his jaw. "And if I was?"

Morgana glanced at Merlin who was watching with polite interest that she knew was hiding something.

Ah. There had been rumors that Merlin's mother had been . . . not nobility.

"Then I imagine you'll have a fight on your hands when your uncles find out," she said smoothly.

"One more year," Arthur said grimly. "One more year and I can get rid of them."

"Sooner if we find proof," Merlin added.

Morgana looked out over the dancing couples. "Well. If you should need a pair of sensible hands . . . "

She risked a glance back. Arthur looked grateful. Merlin was grinning like an idiot.

"I think you mean another pair of sensible hands," Arthur said, hiding his expression behind a neutral mask.

She raised an eyebrow. "I don't think I do."

"But Gwen's helping," Merlin said reasonably.

"She's in love with Arthur," Morgana said. "How much sense can she have?"

Arthur spluttered out a protest. Merlin was still grinning at them both.

Morgana took his hand on the pretext of pulling him forward to see the fireworks and then promptly forgot to let go.

 _Not opposed,_ she thought.

She could work with that.


	48. Lips as Red as Blood

**A/N: There's a sequel to the last two coming, but this isn't it.**

 **Warning for Dark AU.**

* * *

She didn't mean to, the first time.

She'd been watching him for a while, watching that supernova of magic and destiny, and she couldn't help wanting to bask in its warmth. She couldn't help wanting a taste.

So when Merlin woke up from the poison, she'd let her relief goad her into giving in to temptation, and she darted forward and kissed him.

It was her first kiss.

It felt -

Intoxicating.

His magic was a part of him, his magic WAS him, but his destiny was loose, barely connected to him yet. It was so large amd so bright that she couldn't help wanting just a SMALL taste . . .

When she finally pulled up from the kiss, she felt drunk on the high of it, all gold and sweet within her.

Merlin looked pale and half dead, but he'd already looked like that, surely.

And he still served Arthur, so clearly she hadn't taken ALL of it.

(Destiny and loyalty are two different things.)

(Later she wondered if that was why things turned out as they did.)

* * *

She'd never known her mother. She wondered if her mother could have explained this feeling, if she'd lived.

She wanted more. It had been so good.

But - not from Merlin. It wouldn't be . . . right. They'd only just gotten over the awkwardness from the last one.

Lancelot, though. Lancelot made her shiver inside. He had a destiny too, but she didn't want that. Nothing could compare to the one she'd tasted already. She wanted something better.

She had to work up to this one. It took a while, she didn't fully understand it, but it was worth it, in the end.

In the tunnels of that dreadful castle, they kissed.

Loyalty, she thought. Let me taste your loyalty.

The strength and beauty of it made her weep with happiness as she ran on.

Lancelot stayed to fight them off, because he was chivalrous.

(That would have been the reason, had she not kissed him.)

(As it was, at her word, he would have chopped off his own head.)

* * *

Gwaine was tempting. Ever so tempting. He was so charming. So handsome.

But Arthur was shining ever brighter, and he was the jealous type. Better not to risk it.

(There was a time when she wouldn't have thought like this.)

(Later, when her wedding fell through and she'd been thrown out of the city, she found Sir Gwaine and grabbed his face. She kissed him, and he stopped trying to pull back after the first second. I need a friend, she whispered, and the force that poured into her nearly carried her away.)

(Gwaine tried so hard to be a good friend to Merlin, but he wasn't quite as good at it, after that.)

* * *

Arthur was the only one she let herself return to. She didn't ask for much with him. She couldn't, with all the spells he was buried under. Love spells, protection charms, don't notice me's -

Some of them tasted awful and some of them tasted like Merlin, but all of them tasted like secrets, and she liked the elusive thrill.

(Later, she decided, she should have taken more. He couldn't have thrown her out then.)

(After their victory, she kissed him until their friends were laughing at them. Even then, she only loosened the destiny so thick upon him. Arthur was dazed through dinner and the others teased him. It took her weeks of kisses to steal every last bit of it.)

(Arthur had nightmares the whole time. She should feel guilty, she realized.

Mainly, she just felt so, so happy, so she kissed him again, and he trembled as he dreamed.)

* * *

Then Arthur was dead, and she was queen, but that kind of power meant little to her.

Merlin returned to the court, stricken with grief. She gave him a position to keep him close.

All that magic, bubbling up within him. All that life. All that grief. All that loyalty.

Merlin would never be an empty husk.

He fought the Lamia, she remembered, but that Lamia was weak, and his defenses were down now. She thought, perhaps, if she was careful -

They were alone in the council room when she made her move. She leaned down to kiss the top of his head. Just a sip, for now.

Merlin spun and backed away and there was knowledge in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Gwen," he said. She could see the magic in his eyes. She could see what he was about to do.

But she could also see the desperation in him. She could see how he was about to break.

"I'm only trying to help," she told him, as innocent as the day they met. "I can make it hurt less."

She looked him in the eyes as she walked forward. She made her expression look pleading. Sweet.

He didn't resist when she pressed her lips to his.

Mine, she thought. I want him to be mine.

Merlin went under.

(But there was a small voice in the back of his head that laughed and said, Your's, is he? Well, perhaps for now.)

(But remember, your majesty, Magic had him first. And Magic always gets its toys back in the end.)

(And now it's got you too.)


	49. Tasted Like Apple Pie

**A/N:** **(Influences include Calvin and Hobbes and The Squire's Tales)**

* * *

When Gwaine was seven, his sister pushed him into the pond and called him a scummy little toad for reasons that were absolutely positively not his fault in the slightest, cross his heart and hope to die.

Naturally, he retaliated by gathering up the mushy, half rotten apples from the tree whose yield was always too bitter to eat. He climbed up into its branches and waited for her to pass.

He laughed when he splattered her and her friends and they shrieked, running fast and hard to get out of range.

A wisp of a girl about his age who'd been tagging along with her own sister was the only one who stayed. She danced out of the way of the apples he threw and bent to pick up one of the ones that was more or less intact.

The shriveled skin shivered and then pushed outward, turning bright red again. She bit into it happily.

Gwaine's nose wrinkled. "Gross," he complained.

The girl stuck her tongue out at him and grabbed another apple. She sent it sailing towards his head.

Gwaine yelped and tumbled out of the tree.

The girl ran off laughing. Gwaine thought about chasing after her, but the apple was lying in there, ripe and not at all rotten.

He prodded it thoughtfully. It felt fine.

He dared to bite into it. It tasted fresh and sweet and better than any other apple he'd ever eaten.

Later that night, he curled in on himself as his stomach cramped.

"Oh, dear," his mother fussed. "Little Lorie's sick too. I hope it won't spread."

Gwaine groaned and kept his mouth shut about the apple.

* * *

When Gwaine was fourteen, Lorie found work as a maid at the local lord's house.

"I could have lived in a house like that, you know," he told her proudly.

She wrinkled her nose. "It's so drafty in there. Why would you _want_ to?"

That was a good point, Gwaine conceded. And besides, the local lord didn't get to come to the harvest festival and eat apple cakes.

He saved one for Lorie. He blushed when his sister found him out, but Lorie's eyes lit up, and she kissed his cheek before she turned bright red and ran.

Gwaine whistled all the way home.

* * *

Gwaine was seventeen when Lorie snuck him a bit of cheese from the lord's manor.

"Try it, I experimented on it."

Gwaine knew to be cautious by now, but he bit into it anyway.

He blinked. "It tastes like apple pie."

"Is it good?" she asked nervously.

"It's perfect," he declared, and he hesitantly took another bite. "And I've just the gift for thanking the fair lady." He bowed with a flourish and handed her the necklace he'd worked all year to earn. It was just a simple scale pendant on a chain, but it was also a promise. A _someday, when I've finished my apprenticeship - When things are better -_

A promise. One that made her smile in delight to accept.

* * *

Gwaine was eighteen when someone realized that Lorie's cooking experiments weren't just cause for caution, they were treasonous.

He was eighteen when they had to hold him back, screaming.

He was eighteen when he carefully picked up a silver chain from the remains of the fire.

* * *

Gwaine started walking.

He didn't intend to stop.

* * *

He ate apples whenever he could, but they always made his stomach hurt.

* * *

Gwaine was twenty-seven when he stopped. Finally. Permanently. With only one road left to travel.

But before that - before that -

 _"I was having a dream of a cheese that tasted like apple pie. Did anyone else dream that? No? You're missing out."_


	50. Shining Armor, Hint of Rust

Leon didn't talk about his childhood much. It wasn't something any of the knights spent much time discussing, really, but most occasionally shared some story of early mischief or stumbles in their training.

Leon didn't. None of the knights above a certain age did. It was one of the rules they didn't talk about, something instinctively understood.

The newer knights didn't like rules like that, he knew. They felt the pressure of them too greatly.

Leon was used enough to them to weave through them with grace.

* * *

 _The grown-ups wouldn't tell him what was going on, but Leon picked up on things quickly. When his playmates disappeared, he didn't ask about them. He heard the whispers that they'd fled from something. That was all he needed to know._

 _The tension in the castle was tight enough to snap. Leon found more and more out of the way places for him and Kai to play knights. Elaine played the pretty enchantress they were fighting to win the favor of._

 _Then Elaine went to, and Kai wouldn't play without an enchantress. Leon's mother's maid had a tiny daughter that she brought with her and then let loose to play. She was the closest girl, so Leon talked her into playing their fair lady. She was a bit young, but she played the part enthusiastically, pudgy hands waving as she made up nonsense word spells. Kai shrugged and went with it. He even taught her a few real spells, but while they made Kai's eyes flash gold, Gwen just tripped through the pretty words and smiled._

 _Then Kai went. Not disappeared, just - went._

 _It was one of the things that Leon wasn't supposed to know about, much less see, but he caught the words everyone was whispering._

 _"His father's only heir - "_

 _"It seems no one is really safe."_

 _"Tomorrow at the pond if his father can't buy the king off."_

 _Leon stood there, stone faced, as his father's hand held his shoulder so tight it would leave bruises. Something in him felt shaky, explosive, but he could not question the king. Everyone knew you could not question the king._

 _"Play?" Gwen asked him brightly when he saw her the next day._

 _Leon was suddenly aware of everyone who might be watching, might be listening. He knelt down and carefully took her hands before she could begin waving them about._

 _"Alright," he agreed, "but let's play a different game today. You can be a princess."_

 _"Princess!" Gwen agreed happily, and the shaking thing in his chest calmed enough for him to breathe._

* * *

Leon didn't gossip, but others did, and the whispers had a way of coming his way sooner rather than later.

Gwen was being courted by Merlin, according to the latest one. Normally only the servants would have cared about a rumor like that, but their positions in the royal household allowed people to use it as an excuse to speculate on Arthur and Morgana, so it seeped upwards as well.

Leon didn't know if it was true, but he hoped it was. They both deserved happiness.

It did make an old memory tug loose one, and he winced to remember it, even after all this time.

* * *

 _"I'm gonna marry you someday," Gwen announced when they had climbed as high as they could in one of the trees lining the river. The sound of the grown-ups picnicking was far behind them._

 _Leon grinned at her. "Then I shall have to go on many quests to be worthy of your hand," he said, and he practiced the bow he'd been learning as best he could from his position in the tree. He didn't anticipate having to bow at many ladies while he was perched on a tree branch, but it never hurt to be prepared._

 _Gwen giggled. "Lots and lots," she agreed. "But only if you want to," she added hastily. "If you don't want to go on quests, you can just sneak me some food from the banquets instead."_

 _"All fair ladies deserve quests," Leon told her solemnly._

 _Gwen peered through the branches of the tree. The other boys his age were splashing around in the water. "You didn't wanna swim?" she asked curiously._

 _Leon shivered, even in the warm spring air. "No," he said forcefully. Gwen looked up, startled. He reined himself in immediately and smiled at her. "What company could be better than that of my lady?"_

 _Gwen blushed, but she put on her best princess voice from their old games. "None at all," she decreed, and Leon relaxed._

* * *

It had been a silly childhood promise, of course, not one that anyone would have expected him to actually honor, but he'd fully meant it when he said it, and it bothered him to remember the _way_ the promise had been broken more than the fact that it had.

The rumors about Merlin and Gwen faded away. Probably for the best, Leon decided. Neither was quite ready to provide for a family yet.

* * *

 _His training to be a knight began later than it should have. With - everything - it had gotten delayed. A lot of things had._

 _That was the way the adults always phrased it. With - everything._

 _He didn't have as much time for Gwen as he once had, but he stubbornly carved out room until the gossamer threads of the unwritten rules brushed against him, and he realized he'd been breaking them all along. The other boys found his friendship with the daughter of a maid hilarious, and his parents had begun to hint that perhaps he no longer had time for childish games._

 _Leon started avoiding Gwen. He tried not to notice how hurt she looked or how her uncertainty about what she'd done wrong morphed to shyness._

 _It was what he was supposed to do, but Leon didn't like it anymore than he liked the lessons where he finally learned to swim._

* * *

Leon was the second son of a lord, and there was no way he could have married a maidservant.

Which was what made him so nervous about Arthur's attentions towards Gwen. A crown prince _certainly_ couldn't, and even if Arthur meant well, there was really only one way it could end.

They sparred more fiercely than they ever had on the training grounds. It was not Leon's place to question his prince. It was his place to prepare him for war.

So he threw himself into practice, fueled by anger enough to last him years.

When it was announced that Arthur would be marrying her, his style didn't change. This time, though, it was fueled by shame.

* * *

 _One of his fellow squires dared him to kiss a girl._

 _Leon knew the unwritten rules well enough to know he had to be careful here. He couldn't kiss just anyone._

 _It had been years, but he remembered what Gwen had said. He snuck some sweets away from the banquet and went to find her._

 _She was scrubbing dishes in the kitchen. He talked to her, awkwardly at first, then like they hadn't in years. He'd forgotten how much he liked her laugh._

 _When he saw the boy who had dared him lurking just within the kitchen door, he suddenly wasn't sure he wanted to do this. It didn't seem right._

 _But he had given his word that he'd accept the dare, so he leaned forward and stole a kiss._

 _Gwen blushed dark red when he pulled away. He thought it might have been her first kiss too, and his own ears turned red. She smiled at him, shy and hopeful._

 _Then the other boy walked forward and flipped him the coins he'd won, and sudden understanding flooded Gwen's eyes._

 _"I need to go back to work," she said firmly, and the tears in her eyes only welled up, they didn't fall._

 _The next time Leon went into town, the blacksmith's son punched him._

 _Leon had a knight's training. He probably could have beaten the other boy. He certainly could have gotten him in trouble._

 _He felt he deserved the bruise, though, so he just accepted it and handed the coins to the first beggar he saw._

* * *

When Arthur died, he knew there were rumors. People thought there was something between him and the Queen. Some of the lords quietly assured him that they would not oppose him stepping up to be the next king.

Leon thought those lords had forgotten their childhoods too well. Kings, queens, and lords were all very well, but they had forgotten the need to pacify the enchanters. It was not a question of what the court thought but of what the highly unstable court sorcerer thought, and Merlin would follow no king but Arthur.

Besides, the queen was pregnant with Arthur's child, so an heir was coming, and though the number of loyal knights was lower than it had been, Emrys rather made up for it. They didn't _need_ a king.

He didn't know what Gwen thought about it all. No one did, so rumors kept flying.

There was _something_ between them, he admired only to himself. But it was a might-have-been, not a going-to-be.

* * *

 _One time, when they were playing princess and knight, Gwen announced that she didn't want to be a princess, she was going to be a queen. Leon solemnly promised to follow his queen to the best of his ability._

* * *

That promise, he was proud to say, he kept.


	51. Just One Moment More

It is selfish, she knows, to keep silent. She should tell him, warn him, so that he can cast her out like the druids did or finish her once and for all. She should tell him before anyone else gets hurt.

But it has been so long since she felt safe. So long since she felt loved. Surely it won't hurt to wait just a moment longer. She would tell him before he left.

But Freya's will deserted her, and she thought, just one more time. Just one visit more.

* * *

It was selfishness, he knew, to abandon Arthur. To walk away from destiny.

But he had already given up so much. Couldn't he have this? Couldn't he steal away for just a few more moments?

There was a beast loose in Camelot, and he wasn't fighting it. If he ran away with Freya, he would never fight for Camelot again.

It was a daydream and he knew it. He even knew that he didn't entirely want it.

But he did want to keep dreaming, for just one moment more.


	52. With Sense Instead of Magic

**A/N: Scenes from an AU in which Morgana is actually Gorlois's daughter and subsequently has no magic.**

 **Which means that the fact she did in the original is Uther's fault, which I personally find hilarious.**

* * *

Morgause had her mother's hair, and her mother's eyes, much to Vivienne's relief. She had her father's magic, but no one questioned magic.

Morgana had Gorlois's hair and Gorlois's eyes, and like both Gorlois and Vivienne, she hadn't the slightest bit of magic.

Uther assumed she was his, because Uther was king and had fallen into the habit of assuming everything was his, but Uther was wrong.

* * *

Morgause was interesting. Morgana admired what she'd accomplished.

She wasn't sure what to make of the bracelet though. She had occasional nightmares, true, mostly after execution, but they weren't worth using a mysterious gift from a stranger over. The attention made her uneasy, and when she pried what happened out of Arthur, she felt uneasier still.

She'd believe anything of Uther, and she looked forward to Arthur's reign - he wouldn't throw her in the dungeon when she called him out on his stupidity - but she didn't trust Morgause. Magic shouldn't be a crime, but using it like Morgause did should be.

When Morgause reached out to her, Morgana didn't reply. She was awake when the Knights of Medhir attacked. Everyone was.

She saw Arthur fight them, and she saw Merlin's eyes flash.

"It's alright," she told him, and she thought he almost trusted that.

* * *

She watched Merlin more closely after that. He made more sense now.

Not actual sense, because he was a sorcerer in Camelot and because he was Merlin, but more sense. She worried for him. It made her protective.

She liked Gwaine from the start for that alone. He protected Merlin and Arthur when he didn't have to, so she went to thank him.

He had a brilliant smile. "Always liked a hopeless fight," he said, "and keeping those two out of trouble just might be."

She smiled back. He wasn't a serious marriage prospect by any stretch, but it never hurt to flirt a bit.

* * *

"I stepped in to protect Merlin."

Morgana believed him. She wanted to challenge the knights herself for abusing their position. Merlin wouldn't have dared to use magic. He could have been seriously hurt.

Arthur spoke up for him without prompting, and for a moment she felt proud of him, but Uther's mercy was as lacking as ever.

"You can't banish him! He's done nothing wrong."

"He attacked two knights," Uther said in a tone that brooked no argument.

Morgana argued anyway. "Knights attacking someone weaker than themselves don't deserve the title."

Merlin looked offended. Morgana ignored him.

Uther shook his head. "Supposedly attacked."

"There as another witness there," Morgana pointed out. "See what Merlin has to say."

"Father, she has a point - "

"Enough!" Uther erupted. "Take him to a cell. He leaves in the morning. He is banished on pain of death."

Gwaine looked at Uther with all the contempt she felt as he was dragged away.

"Ah, justice," Morgana said bitterly.

"No more," Uther warned.

Morgana was too angry to stop. She ignored Arthur's placating hand. "Too afraid you're wrong to tolerate questions? I know you're many things, but I never took you for a coward."

* * *

The door clanged shut. Morgana pounded the bars before giving up and sliding down the wall.

"That went well," she muttered.

"What happened?" Gwaine's voice came from the next cell.

"I told Uther something he didn't want to hear," she said bitterly.

"Did steam come out of his ears?" Gwaine asked wistfully.

That startled Morgana into a laugh.

* * *

Living on the run for a week while they pulled a plan together to take Camelot back from Morgause had been trying, but they had won now, and she was in a clean dress for the first time since the initial battle.

It hadn't been all bad, though. She'd gotten to talk to Lancelot, a fellow secret keeper, properly, and Gwaine had come back. The sprig of flowers he had handed her with a wink after their victory was tucked into her braid.

She found him leaning against the battlements. She joined him.

"So how long will you be gracing us with your presence this time?"

Gwaine grinned. "Well, under the circumstances, even Uther had to admit it would be ungrateful to have Lance and I executed. We're officially pardoned. Arthur's trying to convince him to honor the knighthoods, but I'm not holding out much hope."

"Will you stay if he doesn't?"

"Might not if he does. He's gearing up to crack down on magic. I don't want any part of that."

Her disappointment was dwarfed by righteous anger. "Of course he is." Never mind that Morgause was dead. He would still want revenge.

Gwaine's jaw was clenched. He nodded. "I'm trying to talk Merlin into coming with me."

Morgana turned, startled, before the sense of it hit her.

Which meant Gwaine knew.

"I'll talk to him," she offered, "but you know what he's like."

"I know." Gwaine's mouth twitched wryly. "I might have to stick around to make sure there's someone here to break him out of jail."

"And in the meantime?" Morgana asked lightly.

He grinned at her. "Perhaps my lady could show me what the citadel is like when everyone isn't trying to kill us?"

She smiled. "I'd be delighted. Thought last bit may be overly optimistic."


	53. Gold in the Dark

Their names had kept him company in the dark.

 _Chezzik, Mraithen, Ailthling, Sartusan, Balinor, Farid, Aenera . . ._

He listed them all, those dragon in skin and those dragon in heart.

It was not proper to say the vengeance chant in a place of enemies, so he kept his peace and held it in his thoughts.

 _Drasir, Maerah, Thirrin, Zarik, Berinah . . ._

* * *

He had not, admittedly, actually liked Chezzik. He had threatened to step on the hatchling more than once, although admittedly he hadn't meant it. Maerah had laughed at him for it, a deep, rumbling laugh he hadn't heard in far too long.

Chezzik had been so hasty. Impossible to teach, and he had already been getting old.

But he had been so young. Balinor had been the one to call him forth. He could have learned. He would have learned. Kilgharrah would have seen to that.

(When he breaks free, his first gust of fire is for Chezzik.)

* * *

Mraithen was the color of the sky. He did not dwell on what he cannot have, but he allowed himself to think of the sky.

She had been old enough to be on her own. He hadn't worried for her. Maerah hadn't either. Mraithen was a good hunter, and who could catch the sky?

(Kilgharrah sees men with nets. He snatches them up and drops them for Mraithen.)

* * *

Aithling'd had a nest to watch over. There had been three dragonlords to help her guard them. Maerah had said she was getting positively paranoid and had only sniffed when reminded of her own protectiveness of her eggs in the past.

(The market burns like the nest did. The pots shattered in he stampede out look like broken eggs.)

* * *

Sartusan saw the strands of destiny better than his weak eyes saw prey. His clanmates brought him what he needed, and he spoke of what he saw. Maerah had told him tartly not to forget what was right in front of him and left deer for him while he slept.

(His fire is blinding in the night, he knows. It also cooks the little knights in their armor.)

* * *

He told Balinor to run. The stubborn man wouldn't have done it, but he had revealed the necessity. He saw destiny well enough to convince his dragonlord of that.

(He felt his heartbrother die. The courtyard they had been betrayed in was raked with his claws.)

* * *

Farid had disliked the name chosen for him. He had chosen his own out of a book and started his own clan at a younger age than was strictly appropriate.

"How very . . . radical," Maerah said.

Kilgharrah snapped his teeth and curled up in the sun. Maerah poked him reproachfully with her tail.

(Farid's voice could have set fire to water. Kilgharrah's roar could wake stone.)

* * *

Dragons didn't have hoards, but Aenara did. She liked pretty things, she defended herself.

Maerah reluctantly let it go.

Kilgharrah rolled her the diamond when Maerah wasn't looking.

(A noblewoman was wearing diamonds. Kilgharrah tossed her into the air.)

* * *

Drasir, Thirrin, and the others - every last one of the others -

He had lived so long. He had lost so many dragonbrothers. There had been so many hatchlings. So many sons and daughters let loose on the world.

Maerah had been so proud of them all.

She had been gold. Bright gold.

(He destroyed every cloak with the dragon emblem he could. How dare they pin her to it? How dare they claim her color?)

* * *

She had loved their little games. Riddles within riddles, and it was a battle to see who was stumped first. It was how he had won her attention.

(He thought he had forgotten any other way to speak.)


	54. Till Death Doth Come Again

**A/N: Shards 'Verse. In which we finally find out what masks Death wears.**

* * *

Death had met him before, of course. Death knew everyone.

It was the first time she'd fought beside him, though. Judging by the chains of Destiny that were already wrapped tight around this splinter of a universe and by the way she kept losing track of time, it might well be the last.

They were losing. Losing badly.

There was a ring of magic stones around this spot, though, and Stubbornness was still hurling everything he had at the enemy from within it, so she let herself slide through the gaps between worlds until she stood over the pile of bones within the circle that someone had long ago buried there.

Stubbornness turned, snarling, only to relax when he saw it was her. "Reinforcements. Good." The magic surrounding them flickered. For just a moment, she felt all the helplessness of fate.

Stubbornness growled and lunged forward. He hit one of the stones. The shields came back up. "What's wrong with your brother?"

Death could move now, but she didn't particularly want to. "Magic's gone. She broke him."

He hissed. "That's unfortunate. Are everyone's shields falling then?"

"She got Courage too," she said dully. "And without them . . . "

"We're it," he realized.

She nodded and waited for whatever scraps of courage he'd held on to fail.

He tossed her one of the strange weapons he'd been using. "Her lackeys charge up the hill about every five minutes. We're due for another attack."

Death's hands curled around the weapon. It fit naturally. They always did. "I'm not enough to beat Destiny and Time," she warned him. "They'll break us too."

"Let them try," he snarled, taking up position behind one of the stones.

Stubbornness, she remembered. A smile curved her lips. Magic would have liked this one.

She took up position opposite him so she could watch his back.

Behind her, Stubbornness suddenly laughed. "Death and the stubborn will to live. Who better to take a stand at the end of the world?"

Fate's minions were running up the hill. Destiny aimed her weapon.

The magic flickered beside her.

She fired.

* * *

Morta didn't want to kill him. She had seen him in her dreams frequently, and so,eyeing about those visions disturbed her more than any of the others did.

She didn't want to kill him, but if he kept breaking into her house, she would have to start to wonder if he wanted to be killed. Just what made the man think that breaking into an Unseelie fortress was a good idea?

"Well?" she demanded, tapping her foot. The guards holding him tightened their grip to encourage an answer.

"Heal my brother, and I'll leave you alone," he promised.

She laughed. "Heal? Who do you think I am? They call me Lady Death for a reason, mortal. These hands don't heal." She strode forward and grabbed his arm. The flesh crumbled under her hand, decaying until her hand was wrapped white bone.

If it weren't for the guards, he wouldn't be standing. His face had gone as white as the bones in his arm.

She let go and backed away. The flesh restored itself.

She wondered if he would die. Mortals sometime died from the shock.

He forced himself to stand straight. "Heal my brother from the Seelie curse laid upon him, and I'll leave you alone."

Ah. That was a different matter. "What do they call you, mortal?"

His mouth twisted. "My village calls me Stubborn Thomas."

She laughed, high and clear. She _liked_ him. And there was something admirable in his persistence.

"Make me laugh twice more, Stubborn Thomas, and I will grant you this boon."

Traditionally, she knew, she should have someone send to Lord Myrddin for a magic that would keep him from laughter so she could watch the mortal fail.

But she liked him, and it had been a long time since she laughed, so she sat back and for once let the contest be fair.

* * *

The Reaper stared at the man incredulously. "You? Again?"

Cephas held on tighter to the crate that was all that was keeping him afloat on the storm tossed sea. "Still alive," he muttered stubbornly.

"Of course you are." She wished she had proper eyes. It was hard to roll sockets. "You know, I could save you a lot of pain if you'd just let me - " She poked him with her scythe.

"N-Nope," he said through chattering teeth. "Ne-Never know what might happen. Could still make it." His eyes were drifting closed though, and if he fell asleep it really would be the end.

She hesitated. There was a ship that was just close enough to give him a chance if it spotted him. He _could_ make it, but only if he stayed awake.

She sighed. She had grown too fond of him to give him up now.

She poked him with the scythe again. He glared at it.

"So tell me what you've been up to since the last time. How'd you get here from the guillotine?"

A familiar glint came into his eyes.

* * *

She drifted among the battlefield dead. The mourning cry her kind was called to sing tore from her lips as it did from her sisters'.

For once, it didn't seem enough. Not for Arthur's grave.

One knight stood swaying in the center of the field. She curved to drift around him, but his arm shot out and grabbed hers.

"I know you," he said hoarsely.

She looked at the blood staining his stomach. He wouldn't be standing for much longer.

She remembered him. Not the memories of his life, like she was supposed to, but memories of other things. Other lives.

His strength was failing, but his grip wasn't. "I know you," he insisted.

She took his arms and helped lower him to the ground. "I know," she told him. "Come find me next time."

* * *

She didn't like this body. It made her feel helpless. Weak.

She didn't know how she should feel, but this wasn't it.

She knew, though, knew bone deep, that she loved Merlin and should be kind to Arthur. Those were just a mother's instincts, though, surely.

There had been other things too, though. Things like how twenty years ago, when a man who had stubbornly survived everything Camelot had thrown at him showed up at her door, she had known she could trust him. Things like how she was sure she had met him before.

Things like how she hadn't had to wait for Merlin to bring her word of Balinor's death. Something in Hunith already knew.


	55. And Will Grow Green and Good

**A/N: Sequel to "Something Gold Can Stay" and "It Need Not Wither Yet."**

* * *

Arthur wasn't nervous. He was never _nervous._ He was just . . . anticipating. Yes. That was it. No one could say otherwise.

"You're nervous, aren't you," Merlin said.

"Shut up, Merlin." He didn't have much hope that would work, but it was worth a shot."

Merlin's eyes were doing that thing that meant he was laughing at Arthur. "Just give her the flowers already."

Arthur looked around the corner of the door to where Gwen was cleaning Lady Helen's sitting room. "I can't just shove them at her," he hissed. "I've got to plan this."

Merlin made an agreeing noise and then promptly used magic to shove Arthur into the room.

Arthur hated when he did that.

Gwen looked up, startled. She blushed furiously when she saw the flowers. "Oh, Arthur - Your Majesty," she corrected herself. "I'm afraid Lady Helen isn't here."

He took a deep breath and said, "Actually, I was hoping to talk to you."

* * *

"You have to kiss him," Merlin repeated. He had a death grip on Arthur's arm to keep him from running off.

Gwen gaped at him. "Merlin, I can't just kiss the king."

"Even if he hasn't been crowned yet and is fighting a really nasty love potion?" Merlin asked desperately.

"Love," Arthur said dreamily. "Love is a wonderful thing."

"Gwen, _please._ "

"Merlin - my lord - " she corrected herself. Whatever Merlin insisted, the title was only proper. "If he's under a spell, I don't see how I can help."

"Someone has to kiss him."

"Get someone else!" She wouldn't torture herself with what could never be.

"Vivian," Arthur suggested. "I could kiss Vivian."

"She's the one who dosed you, you prat," Merlin said in exasperation. "Gwen, it has to be you. It won't work with anyone else."

"Why?" she demanded. Not that she didn't want to kiss Arthur, but - No.

Merlin hesitated. "Destiny."

She stared at him in disbelief. "If this is some kind of joke . . . "

"Please," he begged.

And, well, she owed Merlin. He had saved her father's life last year, and her heart could take the hit.

Arthur was staring at her in happy befuddlement. She bit her lip and forced herself to lean forward.

The first second felt strange. She could almost feel the magic fleeing.

Then Arthur started kissing her back and all thoughts of spells fell from her mind.

Merlin coughed.

Gwen skittered back, blushing. Arthur blinked and looked around.

"Gwen? Merlin? What happened?"

"You told me we couldn't insult the Lady Vivian by checking the pastries she gave you," Merlin grumbled. "That's what happened."

"And you're fighting a duel in an hour," Gwen added. "At least according to rumor."

Arthur stared at them. "Anything else?"

"You ignored a meeting with your uncles," Merlin said helpfully. "But I think they're more concerned with you punching Agravaine in the nose when he insulted Vivian."

"Gaius said it was broken," Gwen added. She winced when he looked at her, but she resisted the urge to turn and run. She was a part of this now whether he liked it or not.

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "Thank you both for your help. And sympathy."

"You punched Agravaine and kissed Gwen," Merlin pointed out. "It could have been worse.

Arthur didn't contradict him.

* * *

"Guinevere!" Arthur took the laundry out of her hands and started walking beside her.

"Give that back," she hissed. "You can't be seen carrying the laundry."

"I don't see why not. It will be a good way to keep my strength up." He shifted the basket so he was carrying it under one arm. "Which is good, because I'll be missing practice tomorrow?"

"Oh?"

"Yes, I was hoping to go on a picnic with a certain fair lady of my acquaintance."

She couldn't help the smile that came from his words, but she knew better than to accept. "Arthur, I can't. I have to be there for Lady Morgana."

"Ah!" Arthur held up a hand. "That's the brilliance of the picnic. Morgana has been asked to one by Merlin at the same time."

"Well . . . " She hesitated. He looked at her so hopefully that she gave in. "Tomorrow, then."

He beamed at her. "Tomorrow."

"You've been happy lately, Gwen," her father said fondly. "There some boy I should know about?"

"Yes, Elyan," she said wryly. "He's finally doing his share of the washing."

Her father laughed. "And here I thought that would take magic."

She'd tell them both eventually, she promised herself. Just . . . Not yet.

Agrivaine cleared his throat. If he was hoping it would make Arthur look up from his reports, he was disappointed.

"Yes, uncle?" Arthur said absently.

"There have been . . . rumors," Agrivaine said delicately.

"Oh, horrors," Arthur said wryly. "Call out the knights."

"Perception is important, Arthur," Agravaine scolded. "Tristan and I were concerned. Rumor has it you've been dallying with a serving maid."

Arthur finally looked up. "The rumors were as false as usual, uncle."

Agravaine relaxed. "Ah, good."

"I've been _courting_ a _lady's_ maid," Arthur corrected. "Whose brother is training to be a knight."

Agravaine sighed. "Arthur - "

"If you have a problem, you can take it up with Merlin."

He started. "Emrys? What does he have to do with it?"

Arthur shrugged. "According to him, it's destiny." He looked back at reports. "Was that everything, uncle? I've quite a lot more to get through tonight."

"That means leave," Merlin said from behind him in entirely too helpful a voice.

Agravaine jumped. When had he -

Merlin guided him, still spluttering, from the room.

* * *

 **A/N: If anyone has any pairings/AUs they would like pairings to be set in, please let me know. As always, I can make no guarantees, but I've got four more stories to write for this challenge, and my ideas are running thin.**


	56. From the Depths of My Heart

**A/N: I wrote this to fulfill two prompts: Freya/Merlin AU where Freya is a selkie, as per morbidbookworm's request, and one that's too spoilery to post here.**

 **Two other things you should know: This is a complete AU, so don't expect Camelot. The second is that leopard seals eat other seals.**

 **It's relevant, trust me.**

* * *

 _There are stories of women who haunt the beaches. Women cursed to live in both sea and land and are happy in neither._

 _The stories say they wear the skins of seals._

* * *

"Oh!" Merlin said, averting his eyes quickly. "Oh, you must be terribly cold, here - " He fumbled out of his cloak and tried to pass it back to her without looking. It took her a moment to stop crying and reach out and take it. "Did someone attack you? Can I help?"

She shivered under the cloak. "My sisters left me here," she whispered. "They said I was too dangerous. They left me here, and it's nearly dawn. People will see - " She broke down crying again.

Merlin understood only about half of that, but he could figure the rest out later. "You can come with me," he offered. "Or - well, the inn's not for a couple of miles, but if you prefer to walk, that's fine, but I've got a house here, and people don't bother it much, they think I'm mad - " He shut his mouth quickly. "I've got a bed and you can have it for now?" he tried again. "It's nearly dawn, so I think I've given up on sleeping tonight."

"Th-thank you," she stuttered, instead of running away screaming, so he must have handled that better than he thought. He beamed at her.

"I'll show you," he said. "You can have one of my mother's old dresses, come on." He led her back over the sand.

When he came back later to see if he could find any traces of those rotten sisters of hers, he found the skin of leopard seal. It wasn't exactly a clue, but it was an oddity, so he brought it back with him, but then one of his potions started boiling over, so he stuck it on a back shelf in his workshop and forgot about it.

* * *

The girl's name was Freya, he quickly discovered. He also discovered that she didn't want to talk about her past, that she was quite good at fishing, and that she frowned when the fishermen called him Mad Merlin.

He also discovered that she told wonderful stories, and that he could make her laugh.

She didn't know some things he thought everyone knew, but then, who knew where she was from or what things were like there? So he explained bread, and made some for her, and explained shoes, and agreed that they were quite bothersome, and explained strawberries and brought her some fresh picked.

Her eyes widened. "These are wonderful!"

Merlin was thinking of other wonderful things, so he blurted out, "Marry me?"

Apparently, wherever she was from had low standards for proposals, because she beamed at him, nodded, and kept munching on the fruit.

* * *

The villagers decided they were both mad, but that was alright. They were happy. For two years they were happy.

Then Merlin was showing Freya something in his workshop, and he absently asked her to get something from the back shelf.

She made a choking noise. He turned, frantic. "What's wrong?"

Her arms were full of the leopard seal skin.

"Freya?" he asked cautiously.

"You didn't even have it locked up," she said. Her voice was unsteady.

"Should I have?" he asked warily. Frankly, he'd forgotten about it.

"If you wanted to keep me," she said. "I thought you would. I thought I finally found someone who would."

Every sense he had was shouting at him. "I don't understand."

"I have to go," she sobbed. "The rules are clear, I have to go." There was a thrum of ancient magic behind the words, enforcing them.

And she ran out the door, still holding the skin.

Merlin did what any husband would do if his crying wife ran outside. He ran after her.

Something happened as she ran. The skin was twisting over her. Morphing.

Then she hit the ocean and was gone.

Merlin kept running.

When he was to his knees in water, he saw the leopard seal swimming away, and he understood at last.

* * *

 _So,_ he sent to her, _you never told me you could do that._

Freya turned, new body lethally graceful, and very, very, stunned. _Merlin?!_

 _Yes, well, it's been a while since I had to do this. I'm sure it didn't turn out quite right._ He made a few nervous adjustments to the new body. _Magic's not easy you know, and shapeshifting's no exception._ He nudged her gently. _So. Where are we going?_

 _I - why are you here?_

 _Because you looked upset._ A new thought occurred to him. _Do you want me to go away?_

 _No,_ she said instantly. _But you can't stay, can you?_

 _I don't see why not._ He swam around her. _It's nice down here._

 _I like the land too,_ she said wistfully. _That's the curse. We can never really be happy in either place, and if we are, we have to go if we find a way to._

 _We can go back and forth then,_ he suggested. _And we can play hide and seek with the skin. When you find it, we'll know it's time to switch back._

 _It's not supposed to work like that,_ she said hesitantly.

 _And strawberries aren't supposed to grow in midwinter. That's never stopped us before._

She laughed at him. _Alright, then._

He couldn't really grin any more than she could really laughed, but he was sure she knew all the same. _All right._

* * *

 _There are tales of a magician whose wife is a selkie. They live half in land, half in water. There are stories that they're happy, but most people scoff. What story ever ends that way?_

* * *

 **A/N: The second request was shapeshifter!Merlin from Silver-ShadowSpark. The two prompts sort of fused together in my head to create this.**


	57. Once Upon a Time

_Once upon a time, in a land far away, there was a castle. And in that castle -_

* * *

Arthur didn't bother knocking on the door to Merlin's tower. If Merlin hadn't knocked all those years he'd been Arthur's manservant, Arthur wasn't going to knock on his door now that he was Arthur's Court Sorcerer. Especially not if he insisted on living at the top of all those stairs. Arthur wasn't as young as he used to be, even if he'd rather dance on the Round Table than admit it to Merlin.

The door banged open. For once, there were no complaints from the tower's occupant. Arthur frowned and started winding his way through the labyrinth of experiments and books. "Merlin? Merlin! You haven't fallen asleep over your books again, have you? You know what happened last time." Namely, Merlin had provided an excellent example for why one should never fall asleep over a book that contained magic. Arthur had successfully used that incident to get Merlin to stop bringing up the donkey ears.

He rounded a table and finally saw Merlin.

Merlin, who was lying on the floor, with a smashed cup beside him.

"Merlin!"

* * *

 _A great curse was laid, but not one of death._

* * *

Merlin had still been breathing. Was still breathing now, Arthur reminded himself fiercely, as he paced outside the physician's quarters. Merlin was fine. He would be on his feet any minute now. There was no need to worry Gwen or the knights, because Merlin would be just fine.

Galahad, the physician these past twenty years, opened the door. His face was drawn.

Arthur froze. "He's not - "

"He's alive," Galahad assured him. "But, sire - You'd better come in and sit down."

His mouth pressed into a thin line, Arthur did so. "Well?"

"It's a sleeping curse," Galahad told him. "Only his true love's kiss can wake him."

"Now who's the princess?" Arthur muttered. The silence that followed the question grated, so he continued quickly. "And who's that? I didn't think he was seeing anyone."

Galahad's expression told him he wasn't going to like whatever came next. "I cast a spell to find out."

"And?" Arthur didn't care if he had to send the knights on a quest to find some girl Merlin'd only seen in visions or if they had to drag in Morgana herself. Anything to break the curse.

Galahad winced. "She's dead."

The words were like a physical blow, but Arthur was used to recovering from those. "Then there has to be another way," Arthur said stubbornly. "There has to be."

"Maybe he could have found one," Galahad said wearily, "but I can't."

Arthur felt an increasing need to throw something. "How long - How long can he stay like this?"

Galahad shrugged. "Indefinitely. His magic will keep him alive."

Arthur nodded. "Good. That gives us time."

"Time, sire?"

"Find out who cast the curse," he said grimly as he stood. "Maybe it'll break when they're dead."

* * *

 _A place was prepared until such time as the curse would be broken._

* * *

He wasn't the only one who came here, Arthur knew. All of them who missed Merlin did.

But they were careful not to run into each other. It made it easier.

"We've news on Morgana's movements," he told Merlin. "I've sent out a patrol of our best knights and sorcerers. We'll get her soon, and then you can stop lazing about and get back to your actual duties."

The quiet sound of breathing was the only response.

"You could at least snore," he told him. "Let us know you're still in there." He leaned back in the chair. "The council's been trying to get me to put someone else on your job, you know. Aren't you going to wake up so I don't replace you with some young magician who had a proper apprenticeship instead of whatever ragtag thing you had?"

He kept rambling on for a while. He tried to imagine Merlin's replies, but Merlin had always managed to take him by surprise, even after all these years. He could never be sure he was imagining right.

"I wonder what she was like," he said at last. "That girl you loved. She must have been something to put up with you. I would have liked to have met her, you know. Was she the one you ran off to meet when Gwen was cursed?"

Arthur had come up with a thousand different stories for the girl. Merlin was going to have some explaining to do when he woke up.

At last, he had to go. "Council meeting, you know," he told Merlin. "They've gotten far duller without you there. I'm sure they'll be at me to fill you seat again, but don't worry. I'm saving it for you. If I have to suffer through them, you do too."

Arthur left.

The patrol came back empty handed.

Arthur sent out another one.

* * *

 _But the spell would not be broken until the time was fulfilled._

* * *

Arthur stood at Camlann field and looked down at the body that lay at his feet.

She was dead. Morgana was dead.

That was the only thought he could hold onto at the moment. All the others were flowing out with the blood that kept seeping out from his chest, no matter how hard he pressed on it.

He started to fall.

"Arthur!" Gwaine caught him and lowered him to the ground. "Hang on, mate, hang on, Galahad's coming - "

Had to hang on. Merlin would be waking up. Had to hang on till Merlin got here, but Gwaine was still babbling about other things. "Merlin," he tried to say, but the word didn't come out quite right.

Gwaine grasped it instantly. "Merlin. That's right. He must be on his way, just hang on, hang on - "

Merlin would come, he knew. He just had to keep his eyes open and wait.

When they laid the body on the Isle, his chest was still, but his eyes were still wide open.

* * *

 _The spell held its victim frozen till the years were all complete._

* * *

The news from the battlefield wasn't good. The one hope Gwen had taken from it, that with Morgana's death, Merlin would rise, was quickly shattered.

Merlin dreamed on.

And without Merlin and without the men they had lost at Camlann, there was no way they could fight off the coming horde.

She had the sorcerers who could teleport take out all the women and children that they could. She stayed behind to fight for her city. When the sorcerers came for her, she shook her head.

"Take Merlin," she ordered.

It had been prophesied, after all, that they would rise again when Albion's need was greatest. The prophecy was not particularly specific about who exactly would be included in that number, but if the girl had been important enough to Merlin that he wouldn't wake without her, than she would be important enough for destiny.

Gwen refused to think otherwise.

* * *

 _So the long years passed, and the story was forgotten._

* * *

Merlin lay in the cave where his last caretakers had hidden him. The mouth of it had been blocked by rubble. The crystals glinted all around him, the visions in them dancing.

Merlin slept on.

* * *

 _Until true love's kiss broke the spell._

* * *

Merlin's dreams had been cruel at first, but then the dark weight that had been pressing him had vanished, and they had turned sweeter. He wasn't surprised to see Freya in one of them.

"Merlin," she breathed, smiling. "I'd almost given up hope that I would be allowed to see you again."

Something about this dream felt different. He frowned. "Allowed?"

"It wasn't time yet," she told him regretfully. "But it is now. It's time for you to wake up."

"But I want to stay here with you," he protested.

"After this life," she promised. "But you have to help Arthur save Albion again first."

Arthur. He had to help Arthur. "Can't you come too?" he asked wistfully.

She shook her head. "It's not my destiny."

Then she kissed him.

And Merlin woke up.

* * *

 _And so the curse was broken._

* * *

"So where's your girl?" Arthur asked after the first of the reunion was over. "The one that woke you up?"

Merlin's eyes went distant. "She's waiting," he said.

And Arthur didn't understand, not entirely, but he said, "Tell me about her?"

So Merlin did.

* * *

 _And they all lived_ mostly _happily for_ a rather long time _after._

* * *

And when the time came, they died and existed happily for forever after that.


	58. Lit a Match You Can't Put Out

**A/N: Sorry for the lack of posting yesterday. Have some Arthur/Gwen to make up for it!**

* * *

Arthur can't breathe without tasting smoke, feeling it crawl down his throats, choking his lungs.

Except when he wakes up from his nightmares. Then, he can't breathe at all.

* * *

 _Fighting Sigan didn't go like Merlin had expected. He'd expected attempted possession. He'd expected gargoyles and fire._

 _He hadn't expected Sigan to smirk and throw a spell almost negligently at the unconscious Arthur. The blue light had sped towards him, and Merlin hadn't known how to stop it, so he'd thrown himself forward onto Arthur in a desperate attempt to shield him._

 _When the light faded, Merlin opened his eyes. They were in a forest that looked dead, and he could feel things creeping through the trees. Things that made his magic twitch._

 _He scrambled to his feet. They could be dead, but if they were dead, he didn't think Arthur would still be unconscious, and even if they were dead, he wasn't going to lie there and let Arthur be attacked._

 _By the time Arthur woke up, the bodies of three beasts that hurt to look at were cooling on the forest floor._

* * *

They expect him to be out of practice, out of shape, out of his mind and lost in the fog of a broken enchantment.

He fights like a dragon unleashed and nearly forgets to pull his blows enough to leave his fellow knights alive. He's ever vigilant. His eyes move constantly as he walks through the castle, and every noise sends his hand to his sword. He can't sleep without someone there to keep watch, and he refuses to admit to this weakness, so he ends up roaming the castle at all hours until this somehow turns into him sleeping on the floor in Morgana's chambers, and she, he, and Guinevere take turns keeping awake and watching the others for nightmares.

The only habits he doesn't keep are boiling his water and assuming that all food is poisoned on principle. He eats and drinks like he's daring the world to kill him, and he looks to Uther with his eyes burning with the heat of a pyre as he does so.

* * *

 _Wherever they were, some forest on earth that Merlin had never heard of, some magical realm, or something else entirely, it didn't matter much. Everything here was trying to kill them, and Merlin hadn't the first idea how to get them home._

 _He tried to keep Arthur's spirits up, but his own were about as low as they could get. Arthur noticed, and he turned and gave Merlin the sort of look he normally reserved for young knights right before their first battles. He put his hands on Merlin's shoulders, and he looked every inch the king he would one day be._

 _"I will get us home," he promised._

 _Then something hissed and came flying out of the trees. Arthur whirled and brought his sword up in an arc. It gutted the beast and fell in a heap._

 _"See?" Arthur said, putting the sword away. "There's nothing here we can't handle. We'll be fine."_

 _"We'll need food soon," Merlin pointed out, "and water. And I don't exactly trust anything we might find here."_

 _"We'll figure something out," Arthur promised, and the fact that he didn't tease Merlin for always thinking of his stomach told him just how seriously Arthur was taking this._

 _When more of those hissing things came flying out of the trees, Merlin had no choice but to use magic to help Arthur fend them off. He wasn't sure at exactly what point in the hours long battle of fighting back to back that Arthur figured it out, but it didn't really matter._

 _When the last of the beasts was dead, Arthur turned. He hadn't put away his sword._

 _"You have magic."_

 _Merlin flinched back. He was struggling to find the words to explain himself when he saw one last beast fling itself from the trees. "Arthur, look out!"_

 _Arthur dodged to the side automatically. A burst of fire from Merlin's hands burnt the creature to a crisp._

 _Arthur looked down at it for a long moment and put his sword away, although he kept his hand near it. "Magic," he repeated. "Do you possibly know a spell for getting us some water?"_

 _Merlin gave him a tired smile. "I'll see what I can do."_

* * *

They tell him that he was enchanted. They say it's the only reason he would have tolerated the sorcerer.

Sorcerer. Even Gaius won't say his name now.

"Merlin," he says helplessly into his hands one night. "Merlin." He hopes saying the name will ease the horrible emptiness in his chest, but it just makes it twist like smoke into the smoke had into the sky.

Guinevere is on watch, and she hesitantly sits down beside him and offers him her hands. She is still unsure of her place, but she has never been afraid to call him out when he is wrong, so he takes some comfort from that. If she is not angry with him, then he is not wrong to mourn this way.

"Merlin," she agrees in a whisper so as not to wake Morgana up. "Merlin, and Father, and Mordred's father, and those druids the last patrol caught . . . "

He struggles to take in a breath. "If you could kill my father," he began, "would you do it?"

She squeezes his hand tightly before answering. "Merlin asked me that once," she admits. "I told him no since it would make me no better than him."

He breathes out. It is treason, what they're discussing. Not just inappropriate, like him sneaking in here to sleep, but treason.

He feels more at ease than he has in weeks.

* * *

 _The tiny blue light popped as soon as it formed. Merlin hissed in frustration. They'd long since learned not to make noises much louder than that._

 _"You'll get it," Arthur promised him quietly. "I have faith in you."_

 _That faith glowed warmly in Merlin. Arthur had faith in him. Arthur had faith in his magic. It was routine between them now. Merlin's magic purified their water. Merlin's magic transformed the poisonous fruits of the forest into something they could eat. Merlin's magic put up shields that made it possible for one of them to sleep in relative safety while the other stood guard._

 _Merlin's magic would bring them home, if he could ever get this spell right. If he could do it before whatever infection was creeping through his wounds made him too weak to do so._

 _The light glowed again, and this time it held. "Now!" Merlin shouted, heedless of the noise. Arthur grabbed his arm and hurled them both through._

 _The portal snapped shut behind them. They were in the courtyard. It was daylight, and all traces of the battle against Sigan were gone. There were knights in the courtyard though, and Merlin couldn't feel any traces of Sigan's magic, so they must have won. Somehow, they must have won._

 _"Sorcery!" an overeager young knight shouted and ran forward._

 _The other knights were already moving to hold him back. They would have held him back._

 _But their reflexes were far too honed from weeks on the run. Arthur already had his sword out in the hand that wasn't supporting Merlin. Merlin shouted a word that sent the knight flying back, safely away from Arthur._

 _The knights charged in earnest then._

 _Arthur. They were after Arthur. They were trying to pull Arthur away from him, but they had to stick together, they had to -_

 _It was too much magic for his weakened state, but Merlin didn't care. He fought like a wounded bear._

 _He could hear Arthur shouting. He could hear swords clanging. He could hear -_

 _His leg collapsed, and all he could hear was his blood rushing and pounding in his ears._

* * *

Every breath in tastes of smoke except when he's near Guinevere. Then the scent of lavender mingles with it and makes it almost bearable. She doesn't fill the gaping hole in him that makes him feel like someone carved out something essential, but he trusts the warmth of her hand in a way that he rarely trusts warmth these days. He is soot and smoke, the remnants of a fire, Morgana is a collection of smoldering embers waiting to blaze to life, and Guinevere is the steady warmth keeping them both in check. Her grief is healthier, and Arthur sticks close, hoping her wholeness will rub off on him.

He kisses her, and it is the most alive he's felt since the pyre, it's the easiest he's breathed since before the fight with Sigan, and it is very, very wrong of him, so he pulls back immediately and apologizes to her as if she's a lady of the court.

She kisses him back, lightly, quickly, and tells him that he'll be a great king, and that she's here for him.

The smoke starts to clear from his lungs at long last. He takes to bringing her flowers, pastries, jewelry - tokens of his gratitude for the way she makes it possible to trust that he's safe, makes it possible for him to sleep, makes it possible for him to breathe.

Morgana assumes that he's courting Guinevere and encourages them. Arthur supposes he is and throws himself into the task. Guinevere is not a traditional choice for a king to be, but she is the only woman he knows that might keep him sane, and that is a very important quality for his future queen to have.

He is not as vigilant as he once was which is how he fails to notice Uther's watching, frowning eyes.

* * *

 _Merlin drifted in and out of consciousness. He was never awake for long, and when he was, everything was fuzzy like he'd been drugged. He caught snippets of words though. Arthur shouting. Gaius making excuses. Someone crying._

 _He felt very distant from it all._

* * *

"She has enchanted you," Uther says, relentless.

"It's a dalliance, nothing more," Arthur lies furiously. "Please, Father, surely you can see she is no witch." He has not called Uther father since the pyre, but he says it now shamelessly, hoping to soften him.

"Her father sympathized with magic users - "

"Tom was innocent and you knew it," Morgana snaps. "You can't seriously mean to burn her for being pretty enough to catch Arthur's eye."

"My decision is final," Uther says.

There is no air in the room, but Arthur manages to choke out, "Father, _please._ Banish her, send her away, but _please_ don't do this, I beg of you."

Uther examines them both. Arthur is trying to look humble, but there is too much hard edged desperation in him for that. Morgana blazes with righteous fury, and Arthur knows what Uther will say before he says it.

"I fear I cannot trust you at the execution. Guards!"

Arthur fights. Morgana fights.

In the end, there is nothing he can do but stand at his window when the smoke trails up to it. There are screams carried on it, and then the screams stop.

He cannot breathe for the smoke, and the airless weight on his chest turns him into something harder than diamond.

* * *

 _The stake dug into his back. The logs shifted beneath him._

 _His head was still fogged from the drugs. He didn't expect the flames until they blistered his feet._

 _They climbed higher and higher. They burned and the pain was even worse than he had imagined it would be._

 _Destiny, he thought, confused with pain and drugs. it couldn't happen this way. He had to protect Arthur. He had to help him unite Albion. He had to help bring magic back._

 _His magic lashed uselessly against the fog of the drugs._

 _He screamed as the flames licked higher. He screamed for Arthur, for the dragon, for Gaius, for his mother. He screamed and screamed and screamed, but the smoke choked him and wouldn't let him, and the pain was too much, too much, too much -_

* * *

Arthur bows to the king and thanks him for clearing his mind from the enchantment. Morgana is still confined to her room. The long gashes on Uther's face from her nails clearly speak to why.

Arthur bribes the guards and gets into her room that night anyway. He brings a stack of maps and papers with him. He's been working on this since the first pyre, and he's finally finished it now.

"According to Merlin, we have to bring magic back and unite Albion," he informs Morgana as soon as the door closes.

Morgana looks at him like she's wondering if he's finally snapped. Her eyes are still red.

"He told me while we were gone," he tells her. "In that forest." They had ended up telling each other most everything there. He starts spreading out the maps and papers on the table. "It was very important to him."

He's worked it out. If he marries Mithian, Nemeth and Camelot will combine into one kingdom. Together, they're strong enough to take down Lot's kingdom. From there, depending on how it goes -

Morgana looks through the plans and maps. She stills on one of them. "These plans require magic."

He nods tightly. "I did say we had to bring it back."

"You're - alright with it then? Not just from Merlin, but alright with it?"

He looks up and is not surprised when after his nod, her eyes turn gold and the papers fly up into the air.

He gathers them back and lays them out again. "That will expedite things, assuming you agree to join me."

"It's not _my_ kingdom you're trying to assemble," she points out, but there's no real annoyance in her voice. She's arguing just to argue, just to get the sound of screams out of her head.

Arthur doesn't mind. He shoves another paper at her. A timeline.

"If we want to get it done in one lifetime, we need to begin soon," he tells her, and he watches as the pieces sink in.

"You want to kill Uther," she breathes.

There are flames under Arthur's skin. They burn him from the inside out. His lungs are filled with smoke, and there is no lavender scenting the air. There is no warmth on his hand. There is no voice scolding him for going too far.

There's no wise yet strange advice either, no safety at his back, no completeness in his chest. There is just this choking nothingness that leaves room for nothing but these plans, this destiny, this fiery thing that he is sure is burning in his eyes and turning him into a sharp edged weapon and nothing else.

He does not want to kill Uther. He needs to.

"For them," he tells her.

And she nods, fierce and bright.

So there will be magic at his back, and someone he can trust to burn like he does.

He hopes Mithian will accept his proposal. She's the most sensible princess he knows, and he needs someone like that. Someone to take over the united Albion when he has been burned into a husk and is finally allowed to rest.

The fire in him is greedy and steals all his air. He wonders how long he can go without breath.

* * *

 _Lancelot joined them for Guinevere and Merlin's sakes, and Elyan joined for his sister. Percival followed Lancelot, and Gwaine got pulled in when he stopped Arthur from getting himself killed before he'd completed his destiny. Morgause, it turned out, was Morgana's sister, which was convenient. She had Cenred wrapped around her little finger, and that was endlessly useful. Mithian accepted his proposal._

 _Arthur marched grimly on, providing justice and safety and mercy and everything else the dead would have wanted._

 _He still couldn't breathe._

* * *

He dreams sometimes of gold eyes and lavender. He lingers in the dreams as long as he can.

It is the only time he can breathe.


	59. Love Potions Enough for Both

**A/N: This is the last of my romantic fics. Yay for a finished challenge!**

 **Please note that this is a companion to Destiny Enough for Both. To refresh your memory on that oneshot: Arthur is talking to the dragon, he knows about magic and Merlin, but Merlin doesn't know that Arthur knows, and Arthur doesn't know that Merlin knows anything at all.**

* * *

The first time it happens, it's the poisoned chalice all over again.

It's not quite the same, because as far as Arthur knows, Merlin has no more idea the food is poisoned than he does, but it doesn't matter, because it's still Arthur's fault. Merlin had brought up burned porridge for breakfast, and Arthur had made him eat some of it.

He had thought Merlin's mouth would screw up, and he would spit it out. He had thought Merlin would glare at him and make some sort of smart remark before stomping off to get him something else for breakfast.

He had not thought that Merlin would stumble back and curl in on himself like he's been stabbed in the stomach.

"Merlin?" He's on his feet in an instant, ready to call for the guards and for Gaius, but Merlin straightens almost instantly. Arthur isn't quite breathing yet, though, because he remembers the chalice all too well.

Merlin's eyes are glazed. "Lady Elaine," he says. "I have to find Lady Elaine."

"Why?" Arthur asks, bewildered.

"She's my one true love," Merlin announces.

Arthur ends up locking Merlin in his room and running off to speak with the great dragon to find out how to get his idiot manservant out of the thrall of the love potion he inadvertently swallowed.

Merlin ends up somehow escaping from the room, breaking into Lady Elaine's, and proposing marriage to her.

Fortunately, Arthur manages to track him down before things can get too out of hand, and he manages to persuade the lady to undo the spell in exchange for their silence on how it had come about in the first place. Seeing as she had never wanted to spell Merlin in the first place, she quickly agrees.

She ends up scared off magic, Merlin remembers nothing of the experience, and Arthur doesn't have to hunt down Merlin's true love. Everyone wins.

Or Arthur wins at least, and after his father finishes yelling at him for skiving off practice to spend the day with Lady Elaine, that's all Arthur cares about.

* * *

The second time it happens, it's a troll looking for revenge for her dead sister, and Arthur is absolutely, positively _done_ with all trolls, ever.

Fortunately, getting Merlin to cry tears of true remorse is far easier than it was getting Uther to cry over something. Arthur's plan is to hand him over to Gaius for a lecture on his many faults, but Merlin slips away before he can drag him there.

He ends up finding him staring after a retreating Morgana with tears welling in his eyes. Arthur knows he should probably ask him what happened, but he doesn't trust himself to talk about Morgana at the moment without giving away the fact that he's beginning to suspect she's a traitor, so he lets it go. Merlin is free of the troll's enchantment, and that leaves Arthur free to go stab the thing.

The fight is very therapeutic.

* * *

The third time, Merlin takes to writing love poetry, and Arthur refuses to put up with that a second longer than he has to. He leaves Merlin in Gaius's care and goes to hunt down the awestruck druid girl who had cast the thing in the first place.

"As of this morning, I had no quarrel with your people," he says through gritted teeth. "Then Merlin came in reciting sonnets to your eyebrows."

The girl cringes back from his ferocious glare.

"Fix it," he hisses.

She does.

* * *

The fourth time, it's Morgana, and Merlin expresses his love through assassination attempts, which is a problem, because Merlin is a surprisingly competent assassin. The only reason everyone's still alive is that Merlin has apparently decided to start with the ailing Uther, and he refuses to kill anyone else until he does so.

It's times like these that Arthur misses the dragon.

Fortunately for everyone, Hunith is visiting her son at the time, and even more fortunately, it's not romantic love needed to break the spell, just sincere love. One kiss on his forehead from his mother, and Merlin is back to his usual idiot self.

Arthur starts giving Merlin more freedom after that. Hunith has to go home eventually, and when she does, they all need a backup plan in case this happens again. Maybe if Merlin has some time to himself he'll finally find himself a girl.

Gwaine mentions that an extremely drunk Merlin had once mentioned a girl. Arthur investigates this possibility eagerly.

Gaius reveals the girl is dead.

Arthur resists the urge to start banging his head against something.

* * *

The fifth time it happens, Merlin is his Court Sorcerer, and there is still no girl.

Well, no 'true love' girl. There is a girl with an obsession with Emrys, but that girl's the reason they're all in this mess in the first place.

This mess being the fact that Merlin has turned the castle the girl's favorite color, and the girl's favorite color is a nauseating green that makes Arthur sick to look at for more than a minute.

The good news is that the dragon is no longer faking his death, so Arthur can at least consult him about it. The bad news is that the dragon is too busy laughing to be of much help.

"Is there some kind of charm to ward these things off?" Arthur demands. "Because if so, I'm going to start demanding Merlin wear one at all times."

"Peace, young king," Kilgharrah chortles. "The witch little knew what she was about. Emrys' own magic will throw it off in a few days."

"I am not living with my castle this color for any number of days," Arthur says flatly.

Kilgharrah just keeps laughing.


	60. Forti in Perpetuum

Their mother, Morwen often told him, had walked ten miles to Caerleon's capital to ask the king for aid when their father died, and she did it while pregnant with Gwaine. Morwen had walked with her the whole time and never complained, not once, despite only being eight years old at the time.

The lesson in the story was plain. Their family was strong, and they didn't complain. They acted.

Morwen did it with an iron will and grim eyes that constantly assessed their poverty for a way out.

Gwaine did it with an easy laugh and a careless smile. It made Morwen furious, but it made their mother smile.

"You've got your father's strength," she told him. "It's a rare man who can see the world for what it is and still laugh without losing that caring heart of yours."

That was the other thing he learned: It didn't matter whether or not others recognized your strength. You just had to be strong.

* * *

When Morwen was of marrying age, she set the house on fire.

She did it in her sleep, without ever getting out of the bed they all had to share and without ever going near the fireplace.

They fled the village before anyone realized it was magic.

Their mother said, "You'll have to be strong enough to keep it locked up inside. It's the only way we'll be safe."

"You'll never be safe so long as you're with me," Morwen said, voice flat, and she was strong enough to walk away.

Gwaine was too young and too weak to stop her no matter how he clung to her arm.

* * *

When their mother died, Gwaine was strong enough to go on. Strong enough to find work wherever he went. Strong enough to resist offers of more profitable work as a mercenary instead of as a laborer.

Well. A laborer who fought bandits and enjoyed a good brawl.

He met Morwen once. She was different. Colder.

Judging by the charms on her wrist and her neck, he didn't think she'd dealt with her magic by locking it in.

"You're wasting your life," she told him. "What would Father think if he could see you living like this?"

Gwaine took another drink and smiled at her cheerily. "He'd probably be glad that I'm not going to to die like he did, fighting for someone who couldn't care less."

He never really figured out what happened the rest of the evening. He just woke up the next morning in a ditch with a raging headache, and when he wandered back to town, he found out the inn they'd been at had burned down.

He also had a necklace on that he'd never seen before, and when he touched it, he could sense his sister as surely as if she was right there yelling at him.

He knew without being told that he could use it to call on her if he was in trouble.

He tried not to think about how he knew that, just like he tried not to think about who, exactly, in the heat of the moment had burned the inn down.

* * *

Merlin, Gwaine realized quickly, was strong. Anyone with that many secrets in their eyes had to be or they would break.

Merlin was uncertain with his strength though, and that was alright. Gwaine was strong enough to help him.

* * *

Every time Gwaine rode out with the knights and there was magic involved, he was always afraid his sister would turn out to be at the bottom of it. He wasn't sure he was strong enough to turn his back on the family he'd built in Camelot. He wasn't sure he was strong enough to turn on what little of his first family he had left.

It was never her, though. Whether by design or accident, it was never her.

* * *

Morgana came and threw him into a ring to fight with nothing more than a wooden sword. He was starving and bruised, but Gaius was dying and Elyan was half-dead, and he was strong enough, he was, he was, he was -

He was strong enough, in the end.

* * *

He'd thought about calling on his sister half a dozen times, but up against Morgana, he knew better than to think that would end any way but with him watching her die.

Whatever distance had grown between them, he wasn't strong enough for that.

* * *

Brothers fell and Merlin was breaking. Gwaine gritted his teeth and tried to be strong enough for them all.

* * *

He was strong but maybe he wasn't very clever, because he'd fallen for Eira's trick and then he'd been stupid enough to go after Morgana.

He was strong, but he wasn't strong enough, because the pain tore through his very soul until the words came out as if of their own accord, and he betrayed his king, betrayed Merlin, and while one of them might forgive them, the other never would, and he would never forgive himself.

He still didn't call for Morwen. He didn't want her to see that he had broken the family's cardinal rule. He hadn't been strong.

* * *

Sir Gwaine was given a place of honor in the catacombs under the city. A witch, now able to come freely to the city thanks to Emrys and the queen, came to visit every Samhain when the veil was thinnest.

She read to him from scrolls about the Naithair venom, calmly dissecting every symptom and effect. She recited accounts of other victims in a cold monotone.

She was making a point to a dead man, and she didn't care what others thought.

No one had ever resisted the Nathair snake. That Gwaine had for as long as he did, to the point that it killed him -

"You had father's strength," she told him.

And because it was dark and there was no one to see, she allowed herself to cry just a bit, and to choke out, "And I gave you that necklace for a reason, you _fool_."


	61. Good Ideas, Bad Ideas

Gwaine woke up with a pounding headache.

That was not a new situation, nor even a particularly unusual one. Even the full body soreness and cold stone floor failed to alert him for a few blurry minutes. He spent years waking up exactly like this, and a few months in a bed in Camelot hadn't tricked him into forgetting the feeling.

It's not till he tried to move his hands and metal clinked that he started to get concerned.

He could just be in jail. He could have disturbed the peace last night. He could have accidentally punched someone being a knight didn't give him the right to punch, although that list was gratifyingly shorter now.

Could have been any of those things, but Gwaine could never delude himself for long. He remembered last night's events plainly, and they had involved a lot of walking and absolutely no drinking.

He finally forced his eyes all the way open. A bleak stone cell that showed absolutely no originality greeted him. Agravaine was chained on the opposite wall. Merlin was nowhere in sight.

That was a problem. Agravaine'd had business with a man who lived in the town here, some two days from Camelot. Merlin had needed herbs for Gaius from the same general region, and Gwaine had been assigned to protect the both of them.

This had suited exactly none of them, but they couldn't argue with the princess.

Well, they could. And did. Frequently. They just hadn't been successful this time, and Gwaine had to admit a certain grudging respect for Arthur. Any man who could withstand all three of them had truly impressive amounts of stubbornness.

Admittedly, it had probably helped that Merlin and Agravaine's alternative plan was to head off in different directions alone. Why they didn't want protection, Gwaine had no - okay, some - idea, but Arthur wouldn't stand for it.

Some protection he was. Agravaine had a large bruise forming around his eye, not that Gwaine cared, and Merlin was -

The last of the fog cleared from his brain, and he looked around desperately. "Where's Merlin?" he demanded.

Agravaine startled. "What was that?"

"Merlin. Where is he?"

"On his way to the pyre, I'd imagine. Hopefully they'll see reason once he's dead."

Gwaine lunged forward until the chains bit into his wrists. "What?"

"You don't remember?" Agravaine raised an oily eyebrow. "The fight at the inn last night?"

"Most of it," Gwaine hedged. The ending was a little hazy, but getting hit in the head with a chair repeatedly would do that to a man.

Agravaine looked unconvinced. "He did magic."

"No, he didn't," Gwaine said immediately. "What made you think that?"

"His eyes were glowing. I am sorry, Sir Gwaine, I know - "

Gwaine didn't care what he thought he knew. "In the middle of a bar fight, you were looking at his eyes?"

Agravaine flushed. "It was the town folk that noticed, not I."

"Ah," Gwaine nodded wisely. Then: "The drunk ones, you mean?"

Agravaine's flush grew darker. "It's not me you need to convince," he snapped.

Ideally, he'd go convince the villagers with his fists, true, but he was well and truly stuck at the moment. For the sake of his sanity, he'd have to assume that Merlin could talk his way out of trouble, one way or another. If Merlin managed that, then Gwaine could make sure Agravaine didn't stick a knife in his back on the way home.

Gwaine settled back against the wall. "They'll figure it out soon enough," he said with confidence he didn't feel. "Probably when he apologizes for stepping on a guard's foot or something."

Agravaine's eyes flashed. Gwaine rolled obliviously on.

"You two have never really gotten on, have you? Why is that?"

Agravaine waved a dismissive hand. "He's a servant. The very idea of "getting on" is ludicrous."

Gwaine smiled politely. "Did I ever tell you about the time I got banished from Camelot?"

By the time Gwaine had finished his story, Agravaine felt the need to insert a hasty clarification of his previous statement.

Gwaine wasn't buying it.

Merlin still wasn't back, so to drown out the thoughts threatening to form, he started singing an old drinking song fondly referred to as endless.

Well. Not necessarily fondly, come to think of it.

Got a reaction from Lord Agravaine though.

He'd lost count of what verse he was on when Merlin finally showed up with an obsequiously apologetic guard. Merlin smiled awkwardly as the guard unlocked the door and hurried in to free them.

Gwaine rubbed his wrists and wandered over to Merlin while Agravaine was freed. "What happened?"

He wasn't expecting an honest answer, but Merlin's excuses were hilarious.

He definitely wasn't expecting Merlin to hesitantly hold out a sigil of some sort.

Long dead training kicked in. "Is that - "

Merlin nodded.

Gwaine whistled. "Bet that came as a surprise to them." The old queen's sigil. Arthur must have given it to him. Who'd have thought?

"What did?" Agravaine inquired.

Merlin hastily shoved it back into his pocket. Gwaine clapped Agravaine on the back and pretended not to notice his wince. "That you're the prince's uncle, of course."

The implication that he'd saved Merlin's life hit did not seem to overjoy Agravaine. Judging by the glare Merlin shot at Agravaine's back, the feeling was mutual.

When they got back to Camelot, Agravaine told the story with a heavy significance that was entirely lost on Arthur. Instead of shooting Merlin a suspicious look, he just groaned instead. "That's what, the third time now, Merlin?"

Merlin tried to look innocent. He was creepily good at it.

"If that many accusations have been made," Agravaine began. No one but Gwaine could hear him over the conversations that had begun to pick up again.

"Yet he's still here," Gwaine pointed out pleasantly. "A point I might think on, if I were you."

He was whistling as he walked away.

* * *

 **A/N: This will be the last of the daily updates for a while, I'm afraid. I fully intend to be back, but I need to work on my original fiction before my betas kill me.**


	62. Who You are beneath the Moon

**A/N: So I'm not done with the original fiction piece that I went on hiatus for, but I am struggling with a chapter, so I wrote this since it was taking up head space. This may happen sporadically over the next week or two.**

 **Oh, and this is AU. VERY AU.**

* * *

Arthur curled up in the cage. He finally given up on pacing. His paws were raw from pressing into the silver wire, and there wasn't enough room to pace properly anyway.

The knights would come soon, he promised himself. It would be embarrassing when they realized he'd been caught by human slavers, but anything was better than this.

* * *

The new cage was even smaller. He couldn't stand, much less pace. The silver was starting to burn through his fur.

His stomach was empty enough that even the drugged meat they kept offering was starting to look appealing.

At least, he assumed it was drugged. They'd drenched the cage in so many harsh scents that he wasn't sure he could smell a bloodsucker if one was right in front of him. The spices burned his nose with every breath. It took all he had not to whine at the pain.

He was beta to the pack and heir to the kingdom. He was the son of Uther Throatripper, the wolfking that had reduced the bloodlickers to a few cringing remnants. He would not give the slavers the satisfaction of hearing him whimper as some of the other prisoners did.

He tried to talk to the other prisoners at first. Tried to help, to reassure. They weren't alone. There was a wolfbrother here. Sooner or later, one of their packs would come.

The slavers beat them all until the only sounds were faint whimpers.

* * *

There hadn't been any drugged meat for a long time. There hadn't been any water either. Or light.

Something had happened to the slavers, Arthur realized dimly. Something had happened, and now no one knew where they were.

The whimpers had quieted. The humans first, and then the other wolves. Spice wasn't the only stench in his nose now.

The magic was strongest in him. He would last the longest.

One quiet whimper broke the quiet. He wasn't alone yet after all.

He yipped softly to reassure the younger wolf. There's someone else here, the noise promised. It'll be alright.

He wished he could transform and talk properly. He wished his throat wasn't so parched. He wished he had the strength to break out and set them all free.

He wished that whimper hadn't been the last sound he heard that wasn't made by himself.

* * *

The door creaked open.

Not real, he thought dully. It couldn't be real.

A sliver of moonlight had fallen onto the floor. A pale boy slipped in. Arthur couldn't catch his scent, but he was too thin to be a wolf-brother. Human, then.

The boy gagged at the smell. "Will?" he called in a choked whisper.

Maybe real after all. Why would his mind conjure up a rescuer not even meant for him?

The boy went from cage to cage. He froze by one and bent his head. Half-formed sobs ripped from his throat.

Arthur finally worked up the strength to make a noise.

It was pathetically weak, but the stranger heard it. He jumped, afraid, before figuring out what it was. He made his way over to the cage, tears still freely falling down his cheeks. "Oh," he breathed. "Oh, no." He fumbled for his waterskin and hastily poured about half into the bowl on the floor of the cage. "Drink that," he ordered. He raked a hand through his hair. "I'll - I'll figure out what to do."

Whatever he'd been planning to do to get Will out, Arthur hoped, but he was in no position to argue. He lapped up the water carefully, letting it settle before getting more.

The human was grieving. Arthur could understand a little franticness. He hadn't been trained for this.

"Alright. Alright, I can pick the lock." The boy shifted his pack and dug out some tools. He looked up, considering. "I brought some clothes. Do you think maybe you could change back when I get you out? I don't have food for a wolf."

For food, absolutely, no matter how much of his remaining strength it stole.

The boy set to work on the doors. "I'm Merlin, by the way. I went to a lot of trouble to find this place, and I'm going to even more trouble to get you out, so please don't eat me."

Arthur would have snorted if he'd been human at the moment.

The door slid open. Arthur all but fell out.

At this point, even Merlin could fight him off without so much as a stick.

* * *

Even with his ability to heal quickly, it was slow going. The woods were dangerous, and Arthur was weak.

It felt good to slip back into human form. It felt good to speak. It felt good to have something but rot and silence meet his senses.

The silence always got him before long.

"Who was he to you?" Arthur asked the second night. "Will, I mean."

Merlin ducked under a low branch. They only traveled at night. Merlin insisted it was safer, and Arthur traveled better at night anyway. "My best friend. He saved my life more than once. He never should have been there."

"I'm sorry," Arthur said quietly. He meant it. No one deserved to die like that. It was his job to make sure his people didn't have to suffer like that.

Merlin tried to smile. He couldn't quite manage it. "At least I got someone out. Even if you are a - " He cut himself off and finished with " - dollophead."

"You really don't like werewolves, do you?" Arthur was more amused than offended. Merlin was always fine around Arthur until he had to say the word.

"How's your nose doing?" Merlin asked.

"Well enough to smell an evasion," he said wryly. "Not good enough for much else."

"Maybe if I found a skunk - "

"No."

* * *

The third night, a few scents started to trickle back in. A deer had been here. Some hunters. A vampire.

Arthur froze for a moment when he first caught the scent, but he kept moving quickly. He didn't want to worry Merlin if it was just an old scent.

But the scent stayed with them, and overlaying the smell of blood was something almost familiar.

"We're being followed," he told Merlin in as low a murmur as he could manage.

Merlin's shoulders tightened. "We'll be at a patrol route in a night if we can make it that far."

"We'll make it," Arthur promised.

He still wasn't in any condition to fight.

* * *

"The knights come here frequently," Merlin said. "If you keep heading north, you'll meet up with them soon."

"I know," Arthur said dryly. "I've run it with them."

Merlin jumped. "You're a knight?"

Arthur stared at him. "Merlin," he said slowly, "you are from around here, aren't you?"

"You're a famous, stuck-up, knight?"

"Try 'prince.'"

Merlin stared at him. "I'm dead," he finally managed. "I'm so, so dead."

Arthur laughed and clapped him on the back. "Nonsense. You saved my life. I'm sure Father will reward you generously for that."

Merlin edged away. "Maybe I should just head on. I wasn't really headed toward the castle anyway."

Arthur sobered quickly. "And if you meet up with our follower?"

Merlin hesitated. His eyes flicked to the bandages still on Arthur's hands.

Arthur was pretty sure it wasn't Merlin's own safety that convinced him to stay.

* * *

The scent of vampire was so strong when he woke up that Arthur nearly choked on it. He sprang to his feet. If it had _dared_ to feed on Merlin -

Merlin was over by the cookfire, his back to Arthur. "I just finished my share of the stew," he said cheerily. "Yours should be done in a moment."

The scent of a bloodsucker was all over the camp. There wasn't a trace of a human anywhere.

He had never actually seen Merlin eat. He had suspected Merlin was cutting his own rations to give Arthur more. He hadn't suspected this.

So pale. So determined to travel at night.

How clouded had his wits been that he hadn't realized?

Merlin turned to see why he hadn't answered. He flinched back from the look on Arthur's face.

"If I live through this, Mum's going to kill me."

Arthur stared at him in utter disbelief. "What were you _thinking_?"

Merlin winced. "I get asked that a lot."

That was when the vampire leaped out from the moonlit trees.

Arthur spun and shifted automatically. He sprang forward and crashed into the leech. His jaws closed on her shoulder even as her fangs sank into his.

They hit the ground rolling. His weight should have given him an advantage, but he'd lost so much of it. His claws scrabbled uselessly against her hard skin, lacking the strength to go in. He was weak.

She grabbed one of his legs and squeezed. She laughed as the bones creaked.

 _Morgana_.

He fought harder, but she'd pinned him now, victorious fangs lunging for his throat -

A stake burst through her chest from behind. Morgana fell.

Merlin stood behind her.

Arthur rolled back onto his feet. Merlin dropped his stake and let out a long breath. He kept staring at the body.

Arthur changed back and put his torn clothes back on.

Morgana was dead. That - was hard to wrap his mind around. He shoved it aside to think about later.

He could smell Merlin properly now. The fainter scent of human had been hidden by the overwhelming scent of blood.

"So you weren't the vampire after all."

Merlin gaped at him. "You thought I was a vampire?"

Arthur shrugged. "You don't eat, you wanted to travel at night . . . "

"I wasn't sure if the slavers were coming back! And I didn't want you to realize that I was giving you most of the food so that you could get your strength back, you, you - prat!"

Arthur walked over to the corpse. "So what did you think I'd figured out?"

"Um . . . "

It didn't matter. The sigil on the stake said it all.

"You're an Ambrosius." They'd been the best vampire hunters in Camelot till Uther banished them. "Your whole clan is banished on pain of death."

"I saved your life. Twice," Merlin added.

Arthur held up his hands. "Relax. I'm not going to turn you in." He was in no condition to even if wanted to, not with his wounds still dripping blood, but even aside from that . . . He didn't want to. Not that he'd admit that out loud.

Merlin shook his head. "A vampire. You thought I was a vampire. You really are a dollophead, aren't you?"

"You're no better," Arthur pointed out.

"Yes, well - "

A howl split the air.

"Your knights." Merlin looked around frantically. "They've caught the scent. I have to go."

Arthur tossed him the stake. Merlin had his gear ready in under a minute.

"Good luck," Arthur said. "And thank you. I won't forget this."

Merlin flashed him a grin. "You'd better not. I don't fancy getting my throat ripped out by your father if I ever get caught." He ran into the trees.

Which rather left the burning question of just how often he broke the banishment, but Arthur added that to the lengthy list of things he didn't think about..

More howls rose into the night. Arthur shifted back and raised his voice to answer them.

* * *

 **A/N: Or the AU in which Camelot's nobility are all werewolves, vampires are what happen when werewolves and humans have children (or vampires and vampires; basically, yes, Morgana was still Arthur's half sister here), and Merlin's family is the AU's equivalent of witchhunters. And Merlin is 100% human and 0% magic and yet still 500% capable of taking down absolutely everyone despite his scrawny looks.**

 **The original plan was for Merlin to be a vampire. It was set up as a while reveal/twist thing.**

 **Then I realized that as soon as I said, "Uther tried to wipe out the vampires," and then said, "Merlin," pretty much everyone was going to go, "Merlin's going to be a vampire." And I do so hate to be predictable. Hopefully this was a bit more surprising.**


	63. Blood so Sweet and Strong

**A/N: This is not a sequel to my last post. I have received some excellent prompts for a sequel, but right now it's just not working. I did receive a few requests for vampire!Merlin however, so that's what this is. Some elements are similar to the mythology of the last one.**

* * *

When he is born, his eyes are gold.

No one notices, not even his mother. No one thinks it odd that he doesn't cry.

His mother does notice, however, that although he never seems hungry, he is growing very pale. She remembers what Balinor taught her, and she burns the herbs he showed her and rubs the ash beneath her eyes. She sees at last what she has given birth to.

It is hard to get blood, but he doesn't need much. Once he can walk, he gets his own. Their trouble with bandits drops drastically.

His eyes turn red.

No one notices.

* * *

There is only so long he can hunt bandits. Eventually, word spreads, and Ealdor is left alone.

The traders speak of crowded, crime ridden cities.

Hunith tells Merlin to be safe and sends him to Camelot.

* * *

What the traders do not say is that the wolf-king of Camelot claims he can sniff out the blood drinkers no matter how powerful they are. The creature staked and beheaded in the courtyard backs this.

The pale and weakened physician does not. Nor does the ward whose eyes are pinkish gold.

Uther looks him straight in the eyes, and Merlin barely breathes.

Uther gives him a job and turns away. Merlin breathes again and has to strangle a laugh.

* * *

He steals blood from the guards at night and seals the wounds with venom. They let him go where he wills after that.

He wakes Arthur every morning with eyes red as death. Arthur never notices.

Neither does Morgana. Like should recognize like, but Gaius is the only one to ever notice when he moves too fast or heals too quick.

And wouldn't notice if Hunith hadn't written and said.

* * *

Arthur's enemies are never found. If they were, it would have been noticed that they were bled dry.

Those like him are staked and burned, still never knowing that one of their own had slain them.

The blood of griffins and wyverns sparkles in his veins makes him strong. His eyes become galaxies.

No one notices.

* * *

The dragon is useful at first, but it quickly grows unhelpful.

Merlin's teeth can cut through anything. Even dragon scales.

The dragon fights at first, but it quietens over time. Even its magic can't hold out for long against his venom.

Merlin's eyes become magnetic, irresistibly beautiful. He doesn't even have to bite the new guards now.

He lets the dragon go eventually. He had promised he would, and it only seems right. It flies off, just as he wills it to, and does no harm to Camelot.

It comes back every night and lets him drink from its veins. The magic in the blood is far too sweet to give up, and its knowledge is far too valuable to let go. Merlin needs to know what the dragon knows if he is to protect Arthur.

* * *

Merlin considers drinking from Uther, but surely someone would notice if the king was acting strangely. Surely.

And besides, Arthur wouldn't like it.

* * *

It takes him a while to realize that humans are not like this. Humans care for more than those bound to them by blood or prophecy.

But those of his kind that he fights are just the same as him, so he is not that unusual among monsters, he thinks.

* * *

Morgana's eyes turn burning red.

Arthur notices.

Uther doesn't.

* * *

He wonders, at first, why he cares for some of the knights. Then the dragon tells him the full prophecy and he understands. They are all part of it too.

It is not that he hates those he is not connected to. He simply doesn't care one way or another until they get in his way - or worse, Arthur's. Then his rage wakens, but he doesn't hate them.

He hates Morgana. He hates her because he could have loved her, but she never noticed, and she walked away.

Sometimes he wishes that someone, anyone, would just notice.

* * *

Arthur and Morgana snarl at each other when they think no one will notice.

"How can no one else smell it?" he rages to Merlin.

"They're not as strong as you," Merlin says. "And they don't want to see. That's why you'll be a great king, Arthur. You can face the hard truths."

Merlin's eyes gleam with far more than the hopes of this far off future.

Arthur doesn't notice.

* * *

Uther dies and Morgana is chased off to the wilds of the north. Arthur is almost content to let her stay there until she begins to steal his men. Then, of course, they have to go after her.

It's just him and Merlin, alone in the frozen wastes. There's little to hunt and no privacy to do it. Merlin grows weaker and paler with each passing day.

"What's wrong, the cold too much for your skinny bones?" Arthur asks, insults hiding concern.

"I'm fine," Merlin insists.

For the first time in years, there is a hint of gold in his eyes.

Arthur keeps asking. Merlin keeps deflecting and weakening.

Arthur wants to know. Arthur needs to know. Arthur is prepared to accept any explanation at this point so long as it helps Merlin.

Arthur notices.

Merlin looks up and sees the horrified realization in his eyes and grins weakly. "You going to stake me, Arthur?"

He could do it, Arthur thinks grimly. Merlin's weak enough by now he could do it. If he can't do it in this form, then the wolf snarling in his rib cage certainly can.

Then Merlin's eyes flick behind him, and Arthur finally smells the scent of another blood drinker and the thralls trailing behind him.

Merlin _snarls_ and lunges forward lightning fast, faster than any wolf or blood drinker Arthur has ever seen before. Faster than even his eyes can follow.

The wolf comes snarling out and Arthur leaps forward, but not at Merlin. Never at Merlin.

The wolf is not so angry after all. Not to one of his pack.

When the battle is over and the snow is stained with blood, Mordred is dead, and Arthur is not quite sure which of them had killed him.

Merlin's eyes swirl with red and black and something that burns like stars, but he bares his throat like a wolf-brother showing submission.

Arthur shifts back. "So I can face the hard truths, can I?" he said dryly.

"My mother wouldn't have noticed if my father hadn't warned her it might happen," Merlin offers hesitantly. "No one's ever noticed me without prior warning. No one but you." And the magic from old blood is not the only thing shining in his eyes. There's enough trust and loyalty there to put an entire wolf pack to shame.

"Not even Morgana?"

Merlin shakes his head.

Arthur huffs out a breath. "Alright then. That'll give us an advantage."

"Us?" Merlin checks.

They have fought together side by side. They have nearly died together more times than he can count. The wolf in him is growling, but not at Merlin, he realizes. Not at one of the pack.

"We've come this far together," he tells Merlin. "And we've brothers that need rescuing."

Merlin's eyes shine.

* * *

 **A/N: In case it wasn't clear about the eyes: gold = hungry, red = full on nonmagical blood, anything else = magical blood. The color changing idea was partly from Merlin itself, partly from Twilight, and partly from me to give credit where it's due.**


	64. What We are in Morning Light

**A/N: Sequel to my first werewolf AU. Long overdue, I know. Inspired by Booksaremedicine's excellent prompt although it didn't follow it point for point.**

 **And yes. This one will have to eventually get a follow up too.**

* * *

Of all the ways he could have met Merlin again, knee-deep in a battlefield would not have been Arthur's first pick.

Fighting a rival pack was always messy. Somehow he didn't think an Ambrosius would help matters any.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"Technically we're not in Camelot," Merlin pointed out, hastily sheathing his dagger. "I could as you the same thing."

"We're literally two feet from the border!"

Merlin cocked his head. "That was oddly specific."

Arthur could hear his men shifting back to human and starting to move around just a few yards back. The ruined wall would only hide them for so long. "I'm a werewolf," he growled. "I always know where the border is. And speaking of werewolves and things you're not, what are you doing here, Merlin?"

Merlin shrugged. "Hunting monsters."

"I don't remember seeing any vampires here." He couldn't smell any either, although admittedly the wind was working against him at the moment.

Merlin just looked at him. "Not all monsters are vampires, Arthur. Whatever your father might think."

The breeze shifted, and Arthur could smell the blood hidden by Merlin's dark clothes.

Werewolf blood.

Suddenly he remembered what the Ambrosius clan had been banished for.

"Their alpha was eating people," Merlin said defensively. "He had to be stopped."

Arthur had suspected that from the reports he had gotten. It still made his stomach roil to have it confirmed, and it made his tone sharper when he snapped out the truth. "It won't matter if you get caught."

And that was a real possibility. The rest of the pack would come looking soon.

"I'm gone," Merlin assured him, but he hesitated as he turned. "Arthur?"

"What?" he demanded.

Merlin's eyes were deadly serious. "Uther being king won't matter either. Not if he keeps going the way he is. The elders are planning something."

Arthur's hackles rose. "What are they planning?"

"I don't know."

Arthur snarled and stalked forward. "That's my _father_. What. Are. They. Planning?"

"I don't know!" Merlin shouted. "It's not like they tell me anything!" He glared at Arthur. "I'm doing you a favor by warning you at all. That's what, three favors you owe me now?"

It was.

Which didn't change the fact that Merlin's rant had been entirely too loud.

Merlin realized it the same moment he did. His face went even paler than usual. "Oops," he breathed. He turned and ran.

Arthur stood frozen. He should go after him. It was what his father would want, and he might still know something. He might –

But he owed Merlin. And Merlin wasn't . . .

Merlin wasn't exactly wrong. Uther was losing himself to the blood madness that plagued their kind, and Arthur didn't know how to bring him back.

He didn't know what to do.

Somewhere past the wall, Leon let out a shout.

Arthur took off, relieved to have action again. The wind, the running, the fight, those were simple things. Those were things he understood. Not messy, like the problem of Uther was.

Then he caught not just Leon's scent but Merlin's too, and he snarled as he ran, because of course this was messy too. Of course it was.

By the time he crashed into the clearing, Merlin was surrounded. Half the men were still wolves. The other half were in steel. Merlin's hand kept flicking towards his knife, but he never quite reached for it. He knew it would be useless, probably.

But the others had only just arrived. He could tell that much. Which meant –

Which meant it had just been Leon and Merlin, and Merlin hadn't attacked. Which meant, what, that he had hesitated? Why would he?

Then Merlin's eyes flicked to him before continuing around the circle, and Arthur understood.

The Ambrosius clan only hunted monsters, and if Leon was one of his men, then Merlin was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

The _idiot_.

"He's an Ambrosius, sire," Leon said. _We need to bring him in_ was understood.

Arthur really, really wondered whose brilliant idea it had been to stamp the clan coat of arms on as much of their weaponry as possible.

The wolves growled in satisfaction. The knights didn't look much less savage.

Merlin's eyes just kept flicking around and around, looking for a way to run.

Arthur still dreamed about the place he'd been held. The place Merlin had rescued from. He still had a scar from where Morgana had bit him. Before Merlin had killed her. He had seen some of what this pack had done. The pack Merlin had helped destroy.

Merlin, who had joked with him as they traveled together. Who had moaned, _Mum's going to kill me._

Merlin, who his knights would expect him to bring in. Merlin, who might be able to tell him how to save his father.

"We bring him back to the capital," he told Leon, blank faced. "Carefully."

"Sire."

The knights moved in. Merlin slowly raised his hands in the air.

Merlin's eyes weren't flitting around anymore. They were locked on Arthur.

"Utherson," he said like they had never met before. His voice had none of the teasing it had held when he had called Arthur 'prat' or 'dollophead.' It was as flat and lifeless as the wolf whose blood stained Merlin's dagger.

"Prince Arthur," he corrected, his voice as cool as the other man's, but he hoped Merlin got the message.

He was Uther's son, yes.

But he was also his own man, and the sum of what he owed Merlin was more than a matter of debt.

It was a long road from here to the capital. He'd figure something out.


	65. When the Shadows Bare Your Face

**A/N: I told someone to expect this update about a week after the last one.**

 **Ha. Ha. Ha.**

 **Here it finally is.**

* * *

The way Arthur saw it, any plan that ended with either Merlin or his father dying is unacceptable. Since the two of them meeting was going to end with someone dying - if nothing else, Arthur might keel over from the stress - he was going to have to prevent that from happening.

That meant he had to get Merlin out before they reached Camelot. If it was simply a matter of waiting until he was on watch, that wouldn't be an issue. Unfortunately, one of the wolfknights had suggested having two people on watch at all times so that they could listen for threats and watch the prisoner at the same time, and Arthur hadn't been able to argue.

So Arthur waited until he was supposed to have a watch with Gwaine and then cornered the knight by the stream a few hours before they were due for it.

Despite some rumors to the contrary, Gwaine wasn't stupid. He raised his eyebrows when he saw Arthur leaning against a tree, arms crossed. "Want to tell me what's going on, princess?"

Arthur growled low in his throat.

Gwaine bared his throat and took a quick step back, hands up. "Easy. I didn't mean anything by it."

Arthur forced himself to relax. Gwaine had been a lone wolf for too long to slip easily into the formalities of the pack. He hadn't meant the nickname as a challenge and Arthur knew it.

"Something's got you tense," Gwaine observed warily.

Arthur's head twitched into something like a nod. "How many people do you think my father will have executed by the time we get back?"

Gwaine winced. "More than Gaius recommended."

The words blood madness hung unspoken between them. They hung unspoken over most of the court. No one had to say it. The whole pack could feel it.

Gwaine's face went uncharacteristically grave. "If you're planning to challenge him - "

"You don't want to finish that sentence," Arthur said flatly.

Gwaine nodded slowly. His posture relaxed some. "What are we talking about then?"

"I don't feel comfortable bringing him another kill." And there was no way Uther would let anyone else kill an Ambrosius.

"Another kill in general, or Merlin in particular?"

Arthur stiffened. "Why should I care about Merlin?"

Gwaine shrugged. "His scent was lingering on your supplies after you escaped from the slavers."

"The others?"

"I don't think they know," Gwaine reassured him. "You know I've got the best nose, and I haven't told anyone. For that matter, I'm not sure what there is to tell."

The silver scars from the slavers burned. "I owe him," Arthur admitted. From that first rescue to Merlin's restraint with Leon. "Possibly more than I can pay back." Certainly more than he could pay back if events kept going the way they had.

"So it''s a jailbreak then," Gwaine concluded cheerfully, stretching out as he did so. "Not sure whether or not it's a compliment that you thought I was the one most likely to go for that."

The others must be starting to wonder what was keeping them by now. "Are you in?" Arthur demanded.

Gwaine grinned. "Oh, I'm definitely in. I owe him a favor or two from my wandering days, and I like the kid. I'd been wondering how to get him away from the group."

It was moments like this that made ARther wonder if his father had a point with the throat ripping.

Gwaine's grin widened. "I warned you that I'd be a headache when you let me join the pack."

"You weren't wrong."

* * *

Leon had only been a pup when the Ambrosius clan was banished, but he'd been a pup on the verge of adolescence. He remembered watching them fight. He remembered what they could do. Even the ones that looked weak. Especially those.

Which is why he kept wondering why he was still alive.

The boy could have gotten him. The boy might have escaped if he had. Leon had sounded his warning fully expecting it to be the last thing he did.

But here he was, lying on the forest floor sleeplessly as the pack slept around him.

His first duty was to his king and to his prince, but his honor nagged at him.

So when he saw Arthur loosening Merlin's ropes through his almost closed lids, he just kept lying there.

When it was discovered that Merlin was gone, Leon wondered how many of the others were only pretending to be surprised.

"Shall we pursue him, sire?" he asked, knowing the answer.

Arthur shook his head. "There's been a threat made against my father. We can't afford to waste the time."

"Of course, sire."

Leon had expected nothing less.

* * *

 **A/N: So, what's next? Well, for those of you who have not been reading How Not to Win the Hunger Games, sorry - finishing up that universe is my next priority, and at the rate it's taking, I'll be lucky to have that done by the end of July. It's highly possible that Spider Man will inspire something, as might Wonder Woman, if I get to see it. Aside from that, I have another original work to start. So where does that leave Merlin? Right where it was, I'm afraid: highly sporadic updates as the mood and the story ideas strike.**


	66. Faith, Trust, and Sidhe Dust

**A/N: Prompt #5 - Shadow. Naturally, I decided to turn it into a Peter Pan AU.**

* * *

Merlin takes the ones that feel unwanted, and only if they want to come.

There have been a lot of unwanted children in Camelot of late.

Most of them have magic.

* * *

He hovers outside of the cage the girl is curled up in. "Hello," he whispers. "Would you like to get out?" His hands are already on the lock.

She cringes back. "Run," she hisses.

"They can't catch me," he assures her with a grin.

The girl is shaking. "I'm a monster. At midnight, if I'm free - "

"Not in Neverland," he promises. The cage pops open. "Let me show you." He extends a hand.

She takes it.

* * *

Will is easier to convince. His parents are dead, and he's an outcast in his village. He likes the idea of a bit of adventure.

He's a little less enthused about the dust. "Think happy thoughts?" he asks incredulously.

"Unless you want me to carry you upside down all the way there."

"Happy thoughts it is."

* * *

Most come quickly.

Most.

* * *

Arthur is eight when he first sees the flying boy. The boy flies right through the window and perches on the bed.

"Hello. Would you like to come with me?"

Arthur screams and throws a pillow at him.

The guards come running in. The boy dives out the window.

In all the chaos, no one notices the boy's shadow, trapped by the pillow and the warding spells Gaius had hidden in it.

One of the servants finds it in the morning. Not knowing what it is, he folds it and puts it in the prince's wardrobe.

* * *

Arthur awakens the second night to a quiet, "Aha!" His eyes jerk open to reveal a ransacked room and the boy holding his shadow and looking highly triumphant.

Arthur grabs the wooden sword he'd snuck into the bed and points it at him. "What are you?"

The boy slowly lowers the shadow. "I'm Merlin. I'm a boy, like you."

"You're magic," Arthur accuses. He knows he should call for the guards again, but maybe if he takes the boy down on his own his father will be proud of him.

Arthur badly wants his father to be proud of him.

"And it's a good thing too, otherwise I'd never get this thing reattached," the boy says, shaking the shadow. The moonlight dances around it, and a ray hits Arthur's face.

It's not the only thing to have recently hit his face.

The boy hisses. "Are you sure you don't want to come?"

Arthur raises his chin defiantly. "I won't abandon my duty." The words have been drilled into him by tutors. "Guards!"

The boy flees again, but not before declaring grimly, "And I won't abandon mine."

* * *

Arthur sees a lot of Merlin after that, even if it's only out of the corner of his eyes.

* * *

Arthur is thirteen when Morgana sneaks into his room at midnight and announces, "I'm leaving."

Arthur blinkers the sleep out of his eyes. "And hello to you too, Morgana."

"I require an escort," she says imperiously.

This is not actually the first time this has happened. Morgana has snuck out before. His father told him to look out for her, so Arthur usually follows.

"Fine," he groans, rolling out of bed. "Where are we going?"

"Think happy thoughts," a cheerful voice says from behind him.

Arthur turns just in time to get a face full of dust.

Apparently, even magic dust can make you sneeze.


	67. Breeze

**A/N: Prompt #7 - Breeze.**

* * *

When Arthur was born, a hot, dry wind blew through the room's window.

"A dragon wind," Nimueh said. "Your son will be strong."

Ygraine smiled weakly and died.

Arthur wailed. Not for his mother - he didn't even realize she was gone - but because the wind had died and left only the frantic flutterings of the servants to replace it.

* * *

When he was very, very young, there were dragons. He had a dim memory of deep, huffing breaths that stirred his clothes. There were deep, rumbling voices too, voices that he felt in his very bones.

Then, of course, the dragons were gone.

* * *

His whole life, Arthur had been watched constantly. The presence of another watcher barely registered until he was five years old and managed to slip away from Gaius and up onto the top of the garden wall.

 _Careful, young prince. You have no wings to catch you if you fall._

Arthur froze. There was no one there but himself. "Who are you? Where are you?"

 _I am Emrys. And I am in a terribly cramped cave, as I have been for the past year._

That wasn't reassuring. "Why are you in a cave? How can you see me? How can you talk to me?"

 _I am in a cave because your father is a prat. As for the rest, well, dragons can do many things._

Dragons. Arthur's breath caught. He remembered dragons. He slithered down the wall. "Can I see you?"

 _That depends on how good you are at sneaking past guards._

"Very good," Arthur assured him.

A brisk dragon wind began to blow.

* * *

Arthur crept into the cavern at the end of the tunnel. The wall torches sputtered as the dragon flew down to the ledge.

The dragon was immense. Glittering gold scales like the Pendragon crest covered the vast form. The torchlight made them seem molten and lit up the huge eyes that sparkled with the light of stars.

Emrys landed and lowered his head. "You'll catch flies like that."

Arthur snapped his mouth shut. Curiosity had it open again. "Why were you watching me?"

Emrys' eyes glazed with remembered visions.

 _Arthur cutting loose his chains, and Emrys flying to freedom._

 _Arthur on his back, whooping with exhilaration as the wind picked up as they dived._

 _The force of his wingbeats pushing down the grass as he flew low toward where Arthur fought at Camlann._

Emrys shook his thoughts clear. "Destiny," he intoned.

Arthur's face screwed up in confusion.

Emrys sighed. "Also," he admitted, "I'm very, very bored."


	68. What's in a Bruise?

_Bruises all around the wrist, back of the head perpetually sore, more bruises peeking out from between neckerchief and shirt -_

* * *

It wasn't exactly a secret. Everyone knew Prince Arthur had been throwing things at servants long before Merlin showed up, and no one had expected him to stop just because he got a permanent manservant.

The rest of it - the bruises that definitely didn't come from flying goblets, the bandages that were just visible when Merlin's shirt got shifted out of place, the way Merlin winced whenever someone bumped into him the wrong way - it wasn't hard to notice. They'd all seen it before. They knew what it meant.

* * *

 _Blood seeping through his shirt, blood at the edge of his jacket, blood staining his boots -_

* * *

It was the other things that were truly worrisome. The time one of the scullery maids had talked Merlin into helping with the dishes and he'd rolled up his sleeves to reveal rope burns. The time the steward noticed bruises that looked like chain links.

The way bright, cheery Merlin quickly grew jumpy and suspicious, weariness creeping permanently into his eyes.

It wasn't the sort of thing that was talked about, but they helped as they could. Anyone with free time volunteered to help him with some of his duties. The younger maids slipped him extra food and encouraging smiles. When they found him asleep somewhere in the middle of the day, they'd wake him up so he wouldn't get in trouble for dallying.

Merlin returned the favor by taking on visiting nobles they weren't sure of and warning the other servants of what he found, by making pushy nobleman look foolish in front of the prince, and by always being ready to help bind up another's bruise.

"Between Arthur and what he takes on himself, the boy's going to drive him into an early grave," the head laundress said with a sigh.

"Arthur's not the one doing it," Gwen said with surprising firmness as she dropped of her lady's things. "I'm sure of it."

The head laundress shook her head. "Don't be fooled by those pretty eyes," she warned. "Stay away from him."

Gwen didn't, but she never turned up with bruises.

Instead, Merlin had more of them.

* * *

 _Burns on his hands, on his chest, on his legs -_

* * *

No one was sure where he went on the days he disappeared. Some thought he was off licking his wounds; some thought Prince Arthur's bad mood had prompted Merlin to go hide somewhere rather than the other way around; some thought he really had gone off to drink, just not for the reasons Prince Arthur muttered about.

The steward didn't know either, but he tried to use it as an opportunity to help.

"It's his fifth such disappearance this month," he said to the prince with a disapproving sniff. "Perhaps I should assign him to some other duties for a time."

The prince waved it off. "I'll talk to him when he gets back."

That hadn't been what the steward wanted at all.

* * *

 _Scars, scars everywhere, so that he always covered up as much as he conceivably could -_

* * *

When Merlin was presumed dead, someone had to be sent to replace him. The steward chose George.

George wasn't sure if it was because he was known to be the most efficient servant in the castle and so the steward hoped he wouldn't anger the new king and would thus avoid punishment, or if it was because the steward liked him least. It was certainly possible. George knew he was not well liked among most of the servants. He'd just never quite clicked with them, and he wasn't sure why.

Whatever the steward's plan was, it worked, more or less. George avoided the need to go to Gaius with a new injury at any rate, though he had failed to quite secure his place with the king. Still, Merlin was gone; the king would have to accept it eventually.

Until then, the servants had started a small memorial under one of the service stairways that only they ever used. Wildflowers and scraps of ribbon made up a small mound of remembrance.

George stood and looked at it for awhile. He hadn't known Merlin well, but everyone knew him at least a little. The other man had been kind, and although George hadn't always understood his jokes, a few had made him smile.

"I have inherited your position," he told the pile of offerings. "I shall do my best with it."

He didn't think Merlin would have been pleased, exactly, that George had taken up his old job. Not because it was George doing it, but because Merlin had always been reluctant to let others near the king, a fact that didn't surprise George. Merlin had always been protective of the other servants.

George would do his best to follow Merlin's example in that. Whatever the steward's reasons had been for giving this job to him, George was the best equipped to deal with it, and he didn't mind.

George had more than a few scars of his own; he'd taught Merlin some of his methods for dealing with them when the other servant hadn't wanted to worry Gaius. He could get used to forming new ones again.

* * *

 _Jumping at sudden movements and shadows, eyes always darting to exits and corners -_

* * *

Merlin came back. The king gave him his job back, Merlin disappeared again, Merlin came back, and then George was informed that it would be his job to train Merlin to be more efficient.

The king introduced the two of them as if he thought they'd never run into each other before. They played along, of course.

George had the distinct impression that this was meant to be some kind of punishment for Merlin - an insult to his skills, perhaps - but for his own part, George didn't mind the task. Maybe if he could teach Merlin some more of his tricks, Merlin would stop spending quite so much time with a limp that he couldn't quite hide.

* * *

 _Shadows under his eyes that were as dark as charcoal, constant yawns, a haunted hunch to his shoulders -_

* * *

The next time Merlin didn't come down to retrieve the king's breakfast by a reasonable time, George took it himself. He practically ran up the back passages to Gaius's rooms. If he could just get the food to Merlin to deliver it in time, than perhaps -

He got to the part where he had to slide though the hidden door to the main passageways just outside of Gaius's rooms. He walked the few steps to the door and then paused before knocking.

The door was cracked open. Just through the crack, he could see Merlin lying on the patient's bed, Gaius applying something to his back. As he did so, Merlin let out a choked cry of pain.

George drew back. He could deliver breakfast this morning. And perhaps - perhaps if he was very lucky, the king would be in a hurry and wouldn't mention it. Maybe he could just fill in for Merlin for the day. George's general duties were just to fill in wherever there was a need, anyway. The steward wouldn't complain.

The king, of course, did notice.

"Where's Merlin?" he demanded as soon as he caught sight of the servant before him.

George opened his mouth to give a bland explanation, but -

But he remembered last time when the king had listed Merlin's faults and said, concerningly, that he liked it that way. Liked having an excuse to lash out, George presumed, and maybe if he gave that excuse in small doses it would be better for him in the long run. Maybe he could spare Merlin a bit if the king got it out of his system.

But he remembered Merlin following behind Gaius after every attack, making sure that all the servants' injuries were treated. He remembered Merlin showing up beaten down and almost defeated but still having enough spark left in him to step in when one of the other servants was being mistreated.

But he remembered that cry of pain, and Merlin's scars, and his own scars, and George said, in a tone that was too bland to be accusatory and too flat to be truly bland -

"Merlin is still recovering from his injuries."

And the king said, "What?"

Not angry. Not darkly amused. Just genuinely bewildered, as if it had never occurred to him that servants bled and broke and didn't magically restore to perfection the next day for another round.

Not anymore at least. George thought back to when sorcery might have made that possible and shuddered for what servants must have suffered then.

He didn't say that, of course. He hadn't gone completely mad. He just continued to lay out the king's breakfast and clarified, "To a degree that he is unable to complete his duties. I will be filling in. Sire."

To be fair, George wasn't actually sure about the level of injury, but it was bad enough, and Merlin deserved a day off.

"His injuries?" the king repeated. "What injuries? What happened?"

And George must be truly mad after all, because he handed the king a napkin and said pleasantly, "Perhaps you could tell me, sire. We have all been wondering."

The king stared at him. _"What?"_

"Late waking you up again?" he asked as he poured a drink into the king's goblet. "Insufficiently polished armor? Smart remarks?"

He looked up into the king's eyes. The king had pushed the napkin off and had risen from bed now, just as he had the first time George had served him.

The look in the king's eyes was very different now than it had been then, though. George couldn't quite read it, but he didn't really have to. He set down the pitcher so he wouldn't drop it when the king erupted.

"What are you talking about?" the king demanded. He didn't wait for an answer. "Where is he?"

And that was where his smart mouth got him. More punishment for Merlin.

"Perhaps some clothes first?" George suggested. If he delayed, perhaps the king would calm down.

"Quickly," he said through gritted teeth.

George was not quick, and no amount of glaring from the king would make him so. Not today.

But the king was eventually ready, and the moment he was, he was charging out the door.

"Sire, you have a council meeting," George tried as he ran after him.

The king turned to glare at him. "Merlin's injured."

"Merlin's always injured," George pointed out.

"He's clumsy," the king snapped.

"Of course he is, sire."

The king stopped and turned to look at George. His eyes were narrowed. "Injured how?"

Was this a test to see how much he'd noticed? Or . . . the thought stole in for the first time . . . did he really not know?

But that was ridiculous. It had to be the king. Who else could it be?

"Bruises, of course," he said, voice as neutral as he could make it. "Often to the back and stomach, sometimes circling his wrists, on a few occasions his neck. Minor burns, frequently. Those trailed off for a while, but they've started up again. Blood is frequently spotted on his clothes by the laundresses. Rope burns and places manacles have rubbed have both been occasionally spotted."

"And he's always injured, you say." The king's tone could only be described as dangerous. George flinched back a bit.

"At least once a week, sire. Usually more."

"And no one's mentioned this before because - " The king's expression shuttered. "Everyone thinks I'm the one doing it."

George didn't think there was really a good answer to that. The king took his silence as the answer it was. He looked almost pained.

George was afraid of what he would say, but the king just kept walking. Slowly, at first, then faster than before.

He didn't bother to knock on Gaius's door when they got there. He just pushed the door right in. Gaius and Merlin both started.

Gaius had still been sitting by the patient's cot. Merlin had been just sitting up, bandages now wrapped around his back.

There were a lot of bandages.

George was expecting the king to shout, but instead he was calm. Dangerously calm.

"Merlin. George informed me you'd been injured."

Merlin's eyes flicked to George and then back to the king. "Just a small accident. I'll be back to polishing armor in no time."

"Let me see."

"Sire, I just put the dressings on. Perhaps - "

"Let me see," King Arthur repeated, and the physician reluctantly obeyed.

George gasped when he saw the wounds. They were deeper than he'd expected and all too plainly fresh.

"An accident," the king echoed flatly. "And would you care to tell me who caused that accident, _Mer_ lin?"

Merlin winced as Gaius reapplied the bandages. "It was my fault, really - "

"Merlin. I _know."_

"You know?" the other servant all but squeaked.

"George told me how long this has been going on. Someone's hurting you, and you're going to tell me who."

Some strange combination of relief and disappointment flickered over Merlin's face before disappearing again. "It's nothing, Arthur. Really. Some people just have better aim than you when throwing things at the servants is all."

"Who?" The king was implacable.

Merlin shifted uncomfortably. "Well, it hasn't been like it's been only one person. After the whole Valiant mess, I tried to get close to anyone new in Camelot to make sure they weren't up to anything. You would not believe what some people will say in front of servants, Arthur - " He saw the look on the king's face and kept going. "- anyway, most of the ones that became . . . problematic. . . like Sophia, or Morgana after she came back, or those knights that weren't actually knights . . . didn't have much patience for me getting underfoot. Actually, even some of the ones that weren't evil didn't have much patience for me getting underfoot." He smiled weakly.

"And you didn't bring this to me because . . . ?"

Merlin looked at him blankly. "You told me after Valiant that the word of a servant wouldn't hold against a noble. Gwaine got thrown into the dungeon when he tried to step in. So - "

The king held up a hand. His eyes were closed, and he was breathing heavily. "You're allowed to report things like this," he said in a strained voice. "And I am not my father. Your words won't hold less weight than a nobleman's."

George was skeptical. Commonborn knights were one thing. Respecting those who couldn't fight back was another.

Merlin shrugged uncomfortably. Judging by the wince on his face, he immediately regretted it.

"So who's responsible for this time?" The king's voice was still dangerously calm.

Merlin winced again. "I'd rather not say."

"Merlin. I'm the king. Whoever it is, I can handle it."

"Can you?" Merlin's eyes held more challenge than George would dream of bringing before the king. "Because the last time I told you he did something, you threatened to banish me."

The king went utterly still. "Agravaine did this?"

"I told you it would be better if I didn't say, sire," Merlin said bitterly.

"So the charges of treason - "

"I accused him because he's guilty," Merlin interrupted. He leaned forward before giving a cry and falling back. "Although I admit, I wouldn't mind him leaving on a lesser charge at this point. He's getting better at landing hits." He scooted forward and made as if to stand.

The king's hand caught his shoulder with surprising gentleness. "Stay. You can have the next few days off to recover. I'll make do with George till then." He sent a wry look over his shoulder. George bowed stiffly. "I'll be back to talk to you more later."

Merlin nodded hesitantly. "Agravaine?"

Arthur's face darkened. "I'll take care of it.. You won't have to deal with him again." He headed towards the door but paused in the threshold. "And Merlin?"

"Mm?"

"No more serving other nobles. You perform your duties for me and no one else."

"Someone's got to keep an eye on them," Merlin argued.

"Merlin."

Merlin raised his hands in surrender.

Somehow, George didn't think that signaled agreement.

But the king was leaving, so George hurried unobtrusively after.

If he suspected there was more going on than he was aware of, then it was none of his business. He had seen and done enough for one day.

And Merlin was living proof of what happened to servants who got too nosy in Camelot.

* * *

 _And a smile, strained but holding, even under all the scars._

* * *

 **A/N: Clarifying note - there's nothing really going on that wasn't in the series. Merlin's just perpetually getting injured from saving Arthur's life (and occasionally from stepping in when certain nobles get testy). The burns are from being around the dragon. The wounds to his back aren't based on anything in particular; just put those down to random assassins Merlin thinks Agravaine hired, and so he's blaming Agravaine for the injury.**


	69. A Heart on Fire (Turns to Ash)

**A/N: I may yet do something more with the concept from last chapter, but this had to be done first.**

 **Warning for contemplation of suicide. More (** **spoilery) warnings at the bottom.**

* * *

Ealdor used to have a meeting hall.

Hunith didn't remember it well. She had been very young when they were plagued by a group of raiders season after season and some of the men had gathered there to argue about what to do.

The raiders had come again that very night. They'd barred the door and then had lit the place on fire.

Hunith's father had been in there. Hunith had run towards the flames to try to get him out.

Hunith's mother had caught her back. "It's too late," she sobbed, "it's too late."

It hadn't been too late though, Hunith had still heard screams -

She had broken free and had run towards the fire. She'd reached the door and started tugging at it when the sparks had caught her dress and set her alight.

Hunith used to have a father.

Now she had scars hidden under her dress and a tendency to flinch back from flames.

* * *

Balinor flinched from the flames too. He spoke of them, sometimes. Spoke of how greedily they'd devoured his kin. Spoke of the screams that had choked the air more than the smoke. Spoke of the pain he'd felt when he'd tried and failed to pull someone off a pyre.

She felt a kinship with that, and she loved the way that he didn't flinch when she rolled up her sleeves and the scars shone. Instead he pulled her close and whispered that she was brave.

She felt brave when she stood with him like that. When she gave shelter when no one else would. When she learned she had a fugitive in her house and let him stay anyway.

When the knights came looking, she didn't feel brave anymore.

"I have to go," Balinor said with panic stricken eyes. "You're not safe if I stay."

 _Where will you go? What will you do? What kind of life can you possibly find away from here?_

 _I'm pregnant with your child._

The words caught in her lungs like smoke, and she just nodded.

Being in love was a wonderful thing, but she would never understand anyone who compared it to the strength of the flames.

* * *

Her baby was born with eyes that burned like fire.

She raised him as best she could anyway. She taught him to keep the magic hidden. She taught him to be careful. To be cautious. To be safe.

To stay far, far away from the fire.

Merlin learned his letter. He learned how to tend the crops. He learned how to run fast and far.

But he never learned how to keep his magic pressed down.

Every year, more stories poured into the village. Drownings. Beheadings. Slavers.

And whole families burned for the magic of one.

Merlin burned his hand once, and Hunith wept over it, because she'd known from the beginning that her baby was destined for the flames.

* * *

Will found out when Merlin burned the chicken coop down, and Hunith wasn't sure which part was worse: that someone knew, or that Merlin was setting fires of his own now, and that both news and magic were entirely out of control.

If Merlin stayed, then either the village would find out and burn them both or Merlin would set their hut alight in his sleep and burn them both anyway.

Hunith tried for a week to think of something to do, and then tried for another when the answer came to her because the answer was too awful to contemplate.

Hunith was willing to die for her son. The thought frightened her - she didn't _want_ to die - but she could do it. If Merlin was tied to a pyre, then she could fling herself at it to drag him down.

But to wait for the flames. To sit, always dreading. To know that there was no escape, no matter what she did. To know one day she might have to watch him writhe and know her turn was next -

Hunith did not feel brave.

She gathered herbs from the woods and looked at them. It would be easy, so easy, to slip some into the stew. They could eat and go to bed, and that would be the end of the matter. They'd both escape the flames that seemed to be their fate.

Then Merlin came in laughing, and she couldn't do it. She couldn't. She couldn't watch her baby die.

Hunith found out when two weeks were passed that she couldn't think of another answer, and Hunith wasn't sure which part was worse: that she was forcing Gaius to take her spot on the pyre, or that she was sending her son to Camelot, knowing it was only a matter of time before he was burned at the stake.

* * *

She had a special place under the mattress that she kept a small sack.

In the sack was a stack of writing paper, carefully rationed, a tiny pot of ink, and a lone quill. There was also a stack of letters received from Gaius and her son.

She answered all letters immediately, filling up a page with all the village news she could think of. She treasured their words.

But the first thing she always checked was the handwriting.

Because one day, Gaius would send a letter, and Merlin would not be able to, or they would both be unable and she would only be able to pray that someone would think to send notice to her.

When that happened, she would get out the second pouch she kept under her mattress, and she would finally make that stew she'd considered long ago.

She dreamed of a world where she only had one sack under her bed, and when she woke, she wept until her eyes burned like flame.

* * *

 **A/N: So. Um. Warnings for contemplation of a murder-suicide and for a mother knowingly sending her child off to die.**

 **I've seen pretty much every character get the Dark! treatment in this fandom. Dark!Morgana is just a a matter of picking the right moment in canon, Dark!Uther pretty much _is_ canon, Dark!Merlin and Dark!Arthur have been repeatedly explored, Dark!Gaius is just too easy, Dark!Lancelot can come into play if you're doing Arwen, and I know of at least a couple of Dark!Gwen's. **

**I've yet to really see Dark!Hunith, although that may just be because I haven't been hunting it down. And yet dark or at least terrified Hunith makes a lot of sense. Her baby has incredible power she can't match. One of his tantrums could have destroyed the village, and even as he gets older, he still won't stop using it. There's a king and a lot of mob justice lurking in wait to kill them both horrifically. It would have taken incredible bravery to deal with that.**

 **And then we come to the question that shows up in so many reveal** **fics: Why did your mother send you to Camelot?**

 **To train under Gaius? Maybe.**

 **Or maybe she sent him because she figured he was going to burn anyway, and she didn't want to be there when it happened.**

 **Happy thoughts!**


	70. When I Have Flown

**A/N: Part of the Shards of Courage series.**

* * *

He saw the paths of time as clear as he saw prey running beneath him. Clearer, even. The long years in the cave beneath the mad king's castle had left his vision somewhat dimmed.

He saw time unfold, and he saw Destiny's strings insidiously entwined throughout it. He shared those threads with the young warlock. It was his duty, after all, in more ways than one. He owed something to Destiny and Magic both.

And if he shared in such a way that the boy was ruthless when he should be merciful, generous would he should be vicious, well. Who could expect a dragon to understand the ways of mortals?

Even if he saw far further than the mortal shells the people wore.

"You ruined it," Destiny hissed.

Kilgharrah shrugged his massive shoulders. His injured wing dragged him down, but there was still a glint in his eyes. "Did I?"

"All my plans, all my plots - " She threw her hands up in the air. "You're supposed to be my ally."

"And you," the dragon pointed out mildly, "were supposed to be mine."

Destiny opened her mouth as if to argue that she'd fulfilled her side of the bargain, appeared to realize that given the circumstances the position was untenable, and changed tack. "Why didn't you support Magic as you were supposed to, then? If you're unsatisfied with me, then surely - "

The dragon laughed. "You forget, my dear, just how far this form can see. I saw what would happen if the destiny you laid out for them had been fulfilled as promised. It was not nearly so pleasant as you would have had me lead them to believe."

Unite all Albion. Bring back magic.

Pretty promises. True, even.

But he had also seen the cost. And if the young warlock had seen it, even he would have agreed that this was better.

"Their destiny shall never come to pass now," he said with complete surety.

Arthur had been allowed a clean death. A heroic death. Magic would come back slowly and carefully. Albion would unite under a loose flag of alliance for a hundred years or so and then fall to the Saxons.

Not ideal. But when he saw the Golden Age of Albion as Destiny would have had it been -

Golden, yes. But when it crashed down in twenty years -

The Old Religion, dark, bloodied, and twisted raising supreme over the land. The screams of sacrifices as blood watered the ground and the land grew dark under Morgana's tortured reign until the earth itself rebelled and swallowed the land whole, and Merlin left to wander alone over a wasteland as he waited for his king to rise -

Defiance of Destiny was a far larger victory than Albion would ever have been. If Magic and Courage had known the full truth, they would have agreed with him.

Kilgharrah settled back. Merlin was not entirely happy now, he was aware, but as fond as he was of the young warlock as he was now, he had still not entirely forgiven Magic, and so this was only fair.

"Your claim on me here has passed, little sister," he told Destiny. "It is Death's turn now."

Destiny continued to rage, but he ignored her. Being the eldest of the siblings had ensured that he grew used to the other's tantrums quickly.

Time yawned and waited for Death.

* * *

 **A/N: The title is taken from a riddle from geeknative dot com: Until I am measured, I am not known, yet how you miss me, when I have flown. The answer, of course, is time.**

 **A long way back a guest reviewer asked who Time was in this series. They suggested Gaius. I was inclined to agree with them . . . until I remembered someone with a complicated relationship with both Destiny and Magic, who could see the future, and who could turn the failure of destiny in the show into a good thing.**

 **So Kilgharrah became Time.**


	71. Binding Magic (Expansion)

**A/N: After all that death and destiny, I thought it was time for something light. So. Remember that head canon from awhile back?**

 **"One time, a couple of sorcerers managed to get a pair of magic restraining cuffs on Merlin. His magic was duly restrained.**

 **So was the sorcerers', the hedge witches', the druids', the griffins' . . .**

 **When an extremely irate Kilgharrah showed up, sniffling like he had a head cold, they had been only too happy to take the cuffs off. Everything got back to normal.**

 **Word got out. No one tried that again."**

 **I decided it was time to make fic of it.**

* * *

Merlin woke up to a pounding head and the always discouraging sound of bandits arguing.

"What are you waiting for, you idiots? Get the other one tied up too."

The other one, Merlin realized fuzzily, must mean him as his arms were definitely free. Which meant the first one was . . . Arthur?

"Tied up with what?"

"With. Rope." This time the "you idiots" was left off, but Merlin was pretty sure it was implied.

"There is no more rope!"

Ah. Merlin well remembered the panic of that phrase.

"Use the cuffs, then!"

Merlin frowned. He didn't like the sound of cuffs. Maybe he could use magic to take the bandits out before it came to that. He cracked his eyes open.

Nope. Arthur was tied up just across from him, and he was very much awake. Merlin would just have to wait this out. It wasn't like cuffs could hold him any better than rope, really.

"But those are supposed to be for sorcerers!"

"Yes," the first voice said through gritted teeth, "but since we don't have any of those, and since we were specifically hired to capture these two men, and since it's not like the cuffs won't hold someone _without_ magic perfectly well, why don't you go get the cuffs?"

"Oh."

Merlin thought he probably ought to do something about all this, but Arthur was still _right there_ , and his head was fuzzy enough he didn't dare count on his skills of diversion.

He was still blearily trying to sort the problem out when someone came up behind him and snapped on the cuffs.

That didn't help the fuzzy feeling. In fact, Merlin realized with a blink as he looked down at himself, he was _looking_ rather fuzzy too. And something felt rather funny in the air. Something missing.

But he still wasn't thinking very well, so someone else could deal with the problem this time. And if no one did, he'd get around to it eventually.

Right after a little nap.

* * *

Some words were just too great to entrust to verbal speech, so when Mordred finally screwed up the courage to say what must be said, he did it telepathically as the druids had taught him so long ago. _Kara, I love you._

Kara said nothing. In fact, she didn't even turn to look at him.

 _Kara? Say something._

She didn't even look at him.

Mordred waited hopefully for another few moments, but the bitter truth crashed down on him soon enough. Kara didn't feel the same. She wouldn't even give him the respect of saying so.

He'd been so happy to run into her again. Now - Now he could feel his cheeks heat with humiliation. He never wanted to see her again.

"Fine, then," he choked out. He turned around and walked hastily away.

Kara turned around, puzzled, when Mordred stormed off.

 _Mordred? Mordred! What's going on?_

He didn't look back once.

* * *

Morgana was thrilled. At long last, she had received word that her hateful brother and his idiotic manservant were captured. Now all she had to do was teleport to where the bandits were, and she would have her revenge.

She situated her cloak and raised her arms for an appropriately dramatic effect before saying the spell.

Nothing happened.

She tried it again. Louder, this time.

Nothing happened.

She shouted the spell.

Nothing happened.

She let out a scream of rage and tried to release a wave of force to let out her frustrations against the trees.

Nothing happened.

Just like - Just like when -

"Emrys," she - Not yelped. High priestesses didn't yelp. She - exclaimed. In an appropriately fearsome manner.

If Emrys was working against her again - if he was that close -

She retreated swiftly through the trees.

And no, that was not a kind way of saying "scrambled madly like a rabbit chased by wolves," thank you very much.

* * *

Look, Gwaine wasn't saying he had an enchanted sword. He was just saying that he'd bought it off an old man who specialized in, ah, unorthodox goods, and that there was a reason that despite numerous bar brawls, gambling enterprises, and unexpected confiscations, he still had the _same_ sword.

Or, rather, he wasn't saying that because this was Camelot and the princess would get his armor in a twist. Besides. The other knights might be jealous.

Since the sword's only magical property was to always return to him sooner or later, Gwaine didn't feel bad about using it in practice against the other knights. So as Percival approached, Gwaine drew it with a grin. "Ready, mate?"

"Ready," Percival started to say.

Started, because there was a strange pop, and then Gwaine's sword, his wonderful, fabulous sword, was no longer in the guard position in front of him.

Instead, he was holding a small feather that swayed slightly in the breeze.

Gwaine stared at it. He reached out his other hand and poked it.

Still a feather. Or, more accurately, a quill. A quill pen.

The pen might be mightier than the sword, but Gwaine would really rather have something better to go up against Percival's muscles.

He looked up at Percival with a rueful smile, a quick explanation bubbling up in him. He wasn't sure what the explanation was yet, so he was quite eager to open his mouth and find out.

Except Percival's face wasn't where he'd thought it would be.

A small voice came from somewhere rather closer to the ground. "Um."

Gwaine looked down.

There, at a height that was only maybe, possibly, _generously_ five feet, was a stick of a man with no muscles to speak of that was practically drowning in chain mail.

Gwaine blinked. "Percival?"

The man's face turned bright red. "Yes?"

Gwaine looked around at the confused knights that were just beginning to realize what was going on. Some of them, he noticed, were having similar troubles, ranging from suddenly broken armor to a knight who's helmet had presumably turned into a chicken, as he now had one sitting on his head.

" . . . Let's get you to Gaius before there's a stampede," Gwaine decided. He shoved the pen into his belt.

"Right," Percival said firmly. He took a step towards the castle.

And promptly fell over the chain mail.

Gwaine looked down at his fallen friend, picked him up, and ran.

* * *

Kilgharrah noticed immediately when the magic went out from the world. Most enchantments would come undone immediately, he knew; his own innate magic would take longer to drain.

In the meantime, the lack was expressing itself as a _dreadful_ cold.

There was only one possible cause to such a catastrophe.

Kilgharrah launched himself into the air and took off in the direction of the young warlock.

Unfortunately, by the time he reached him, the magic was already leaving his wings. His landing was more of a crash than anything, but it was still more than enough to awe the pathetic camp of bandits.

Kilgharrah waddled forward. He glared particularly fiercely at the bandits to make up for the slight lack of grandeur.

"Release the young warlock," he growled. His cold added a nice roughness to the roar. _"Now."_

Even a rather ill dragon was impressive enough to the bandits scurrying to do what he ordered, he was pleased to note. He peered at them closely just to be sure they really were doing as he said and not double crossing them. Between his failing eyesight and the watering eyes his illness had brought about, it was rather hard to see clearly.

The young warlock was yelping about something, but Kilgharrah couldn't understand it through the gag. He was probably urging them to hurry. He did look rather wispy under those cuffs.

The manacles finally fell off. Kilgharrah straightened up. Already he could feel new magic flooding through him.

The young dragonlord tore the gag off. He was not, however, looking at Kilgharrah. Or the bandits.

Instead, he was looking at another young man who had been tied up a few yards away and who had quite escaped Kilgharrah's notice.

Now that his eyes were clearing up, he rather thought it might be . . .

Ah, yes. The young king.

That was . . . Unfortunate.

He puffed his chest out and put the best spin on it he could. "The time has come for you to reveal yourself, young warlock. If destiny is to come to pass, the time must be now." There. That sounded good.

Merlin's jaw dropped. "Just last week you were all but ordering me not to tell him!"

He'd been hoping the young warlock would have been hit on the head enough in the interim to forget that. "Last week the time was not yet ripe. Now the time for Albion to come to pass is at hand."

The young king had also been gagged. He was making some interesting noises through it. Merlin's eyes flickered guiltily to him. "Right, Arthur, I can explain - " As he spoke, his eyes flashed, and the ropes and gag fell off.

Personally, Kilgharrah would have waited until the explanations were through with, but that was the young warlock's decision. In the meantime, seeing as Arthur had just been handed his sword by an apologetic bandit -

"This part of your destiny you must accomplish alone, young warlock," he announced. He tested his wings. He thought he had enough magic regained to fly away. "I take my leave of you."

"Now wait just a minute - " The king began.

Kilgharrah flapped his wings and took off.

And promptly crashed back down. It seemed he was not quite ready after all.

He turned and began to walk regally away as if he had always meant to do that.

Merlin's jaw snapped shut. "Come back here, you great scaly coward! You got me into this mess, you're not leaving me in it. Drakon - "

For one hopeful moment, Kilgharrah thought perhaps he could hum loudly enough to drown out the dragonlord's command.

Unfortunately not.


	72. When Oft at Joyous Christmas Time

**A/N: Title from "Oh, Christmas Tree." Part ten of my Christmas fics, as well as an entry in my series of Werewolf!Arthur, Monster Hunter!Merlin series.**

* * *

The best thing about the winter holidays was the scents. Roasting meat, crispy pastry, and cinnamon from the kitchens. The clean scent of the evergreen boughs that were brought in. The various scents the many guests brought with them -

Arthur froze. Then there was, of course, the scent of the guests themselves.

He backtracked to the young man hanging holly in a window. The scrawny, dark haired young man.

"Merlin," he growled.

Merlin turned around with guilty slowness. "Your highness."

Arthur gritted his teeth. This was a crowded hallway. He couldn't start shouting, no matter how tempting it was. "What are you doing here?"

"I was hired," Merlin said with wide, innocent eyes. "They needed more help for the holidays."

Arthur gave up on subtlety, grabbed Merlin by the arm, and started dragging him down the hallway. They were almost to his room. Hopefully, everyone they passed till then would see the fury rolling off him and have the sense to mind their own business.

Merlin didn't protest. He let Arthur all but fling him into the room and slam the door.

Arthur took a deep breath. "In case you've forgotten, your whole clan's banished. Most people take that to mean that getting a job at the king's castle is right out."

Merlin was still trying the innocent eyes. "But Arthur, it's the season of goodwill and forgiveness."

Suddenly, all the fury drained away, and all that was left was the constant worry that was wearing away at him. He leaned against this door and prayed this wasn't about to come to a fight. "Please tell me you're not here to kill my father."

Merlin was abruptly serious. "I'm not here to kill anyone. I'm here to deliver a warning."

"About my father?"

Merlin shook his head. "We've got bigger targets now." He paused. "Literally and figuratively. I thought you needed to know."

"Know what?"

Merlin grimaced. "Did you know it was possible to make undead dragons?"

Arthur stared at him. "No. I did not know that. I would have happily gone my whole life without knowing that. Why are there undead dragons?"

"Morgause," Merlin said apologetically, like that explained anything.

It more or less did.

"You look stressed," Merlin said.

"Oh, keen eye there. Great deduction skills."

Merlin grinned. "Want to go hunt dragons with me?"

"No," Arthur growled. "I want to go hunt down that vampiric witch."

"That works too. How soon can you get away?"

"Two days." He grimaced. "And I'll need an escort."

"Gwaine," Merlin suggested.

"My two biggest headaches in one place." Arthur sighed. "Perfect."


End file.
